ST. ANNE 



,0 / y'> 



MOUNTAINS 



EFFIE BIGNELL 




Copightl^ 



CDJWRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








NOW IT NARROWS 



SAINT ANNE 
OF THE MOUNTAINS 

The Story of a Summer in 
a Canadian Pilgrimage Village 

EFFIE BIGNELL 

Author of 

Mr. Chupes and Miss Jenny, My Woodland Inti- 

mates, A Quintette of Graycoats, he Chardron- 

net and other Habitant Stories 

"O Canada, O mes Amours" 




RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
BOSTON 



Copyright, 1912, by Richard G. Badger 
AM Rights Reserved 



( ^ 

The GORHAM PRESS Boston U.S.A. l^ 

H 

©CI,A3a8336 
4^ I 



DEDICATION 

To the revered memory of 
two noble Canadians 

SIR JAMES Mcpherson le moine 

and 
DR. LOUIS FRECHETTE 

this little record of the North Country 
is lovingly and gratefully dedicated 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Prefatory Note 9 

/ A Fairy Drive 17 

// Again en Route 34 

/// Some Practical Details of the En- 
chanted Country 44 

IV With the Villagers 54 

V Festival Days 75 

VI Alongshore 91 

VII Farther Alongshore 121 

VIII Seaward and Skyward 135 

IX At the Sign of the Half-way 

House 153 

X With the Winding River 173 

XI Sur le Bord de UEau 190 

XII The Parting of the Ways 211 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Now it Narrows Frontispiece ^ 

Facing Page 
Map 8 "^ 

The Road to the Happy Valley 241^ 

A Wayside Oven 32 ^ 

On One Lonely Height a Calvary Rises 40 ^ 

Boulevard-like Roads 48 ^ 

'Well-to-do" 64 ^ 

J Bridge's Remnants 72 u^ 

Beautiful in Natural Outline 80 

Interior of Pilgrimage Church 96 "^ 

The Halt at the Ferry 120^ 

Monseigneur Approaches 1281^ 

Monseigneur Passes I44 *^'^ 

Razor-hacked Piglets 160 

A Company of Fisher-folk 176 

Rugged Sentinels 192 ^ 

Lonely Enough 208 ^^ 



PREFATORY NOTE 

IT was a beautiful clear moonlit evening 
in early June. A friendly little com- 
pany, having in mind an interchange of 
information regarding summer plans, 
had assembled on the veranda of a quiet 
suburban house. 

A tender breeze whispered through the 
trees of the neighboring grove, and the deli- 
cate shadow-vines cast athwart our bungalow 
by the moonlight's outlining, swayed softly; 
while the subtle fragrance of moon flowers, 
evening primroses, four o'clocks, nicotiana 
affinis and other glare-eluding blossoms, 
blended with the luscious, spicy breath of the 
honeysuckle. 

A song sparrow's voice rang out sweet, 
clear and spiritual; while, like a pulse of the 
night, rose and fell the soft chorus of joyous 
insects. 

And into this earthly paradise ventured 
neither mosquito nor any other baleful re- 
minder of the serpent's trail. 

"Provided you do not ask me to accom- 
pany you," said the owner of the veranda, 

9 



PREFATORY NOTE 

''you may all roam where you will. New 
Jersey meets my requirements and I bide at 
home." 

"I am bound for the Orient," declared one. 

"And I for the Occident," said another. 

"A Swiss walking tour is my ambition," 
said a third. 

"The forests of Maine represent my goal," 
remarked a fourth. 

"The Catskills, mine." 

"The Adirondacks mine." 

"The seashore mine." 

"Quaint Quebec mine," and so on until 
came the turn of my travelling companion 
and myself. 

"We are to summer at a village on the 
coast of Gaspe." 

"And where may Gaspe be?" inquired one 
and another of our much-travelled com- 
panions. 

And such is the charm of the unknown that 
we, lesser lights, soon found ourselves exalt- 
ed to a pinnacle of importance in comparison 
with which our fellow-voyagers' schemes were 
but as mole hills to a mountain. 

We produced a map, and for a moment 
the profane glare of an artificial light was 

lO 



PREFATORY NOTE 

allowed to fall upon the paper. But in that 
single moment of illumination the mysterious 
Gaspe peninsula was located. 

"You are going no farther than the south- 
ern coast of the lower St. Lawrence," ex- 
claims one, in the injured tone of a person 
who discovers himself to be the victim of a 
fraud. 

"No farther than the southern coast of 
the lower St. Lawrence," we meekly acknowl- 
edge. 

"But you will be ninety miles from a rail- 
road," hopefully remarks another, as if pre- 
senting what might be considered an extenu- 
ating circumstance. 

"Yes, ninety miles from a railroad," we 
echo, taking heart again. 

"Your long drive will lead you through a 
most interesting country and will no doubt 
furnish you with many quaint experiences." 

"We trust it will." 

"And you will take photographs all along 
the route, as well as in your pilgrimage vil- 
lage and its neighborhood." 

"Such is our intention." 

"And you will write your experiences and 
will give us an opportunity of passing judg- 
II 



PREFATORY NOTE 

ment on the result of your summer experi- 
ment?" 

The promise is given, and, with the sensa- 
tion of having passed an examination for ad- 
mission to church membership, we subside. 

Lest any of my readers should share the 
perplexity of the veranda group, a map of our 
route is here subjoined; and in the hope of 
imparting a faint idea of the settings of the 
subjects under discussion, a number of photo- 
graphs are presented. No doubt many blem- 
ishes will be brought to light through a crit- 
ical inspection of these pictures ; nevertheless, 
wherever the illustrations represent unusual 
detail or distance, I counsel the use of a mag- 
nifying glass. 

Since writing the following pages I have 
taken a second journey to the village of the 
shrine. On the later occasion, in place of my 
companion of the experimental trip, there ac- 
companied me one weary of the stress and 
hurry of the age. One eager for the quiet 
that can be found in no localities save those 
where are unknown all electric or steam-pro- 
pelled vehicles, other than such as pass upon 
the waters. 

But when about half of the ninety mile 

12 



PREFATORY NOTE 

drive had been accomplished, and my com- 
panion was exulting in the serenity and re- 
moteness of our surroundings, a familiar 
toot of warning cleft the air; and lo, — halt- 
ing on the summit of the high hill whose 
base we had reached, — poised like a bird of 
ill-omen preparing to swoop down upon us 
and to destroy us — was a motor car ! 

The tourists courteously waited until we 
had made the ascent and gone our way. But 
not until the auto had whizzed itself out of 
sight and hearing did I venture to look 
toward my travelling companion: the trust- 
ing friend, who, through my representation 
of the automobileless state of this particular 
stretch of country, had been induced to ac- 
company me I 

Every trace of serenity and satisfaction 
had vanished from her countenance; and in 
their stead was that frozen look of disap- 
proval and determination which character- 
izes the so-called ''bicycle face." 

"I suppose," she remarked icily to her 
driver, (the philosophical farmer whose ac- 
quaintance will be made in the course of this 
sketch) "I suppose that thirty will event- 
ually make its way to Ste. Anne des Monts." 
13 



PREFATORY NOTE 

"I do not think it likely, Madame." 

"And what is to hinder, I should like to 
know? Here we meet it at the summit of 
one of your highest hills." 

"That statement may not be contradicted, 
Madame, nevertheless I do not think that 
automobiles will reach our village — not this 
season at least. Voyez-vous, Madame, there 
is a hindrance. Before one arrives at Ste. 
Anne des Monts* one must cross a river, 
and this river has no bridge, and" . . . 

Farther reassurance was unnecessary, and 
on the strength of this comforting statement 
I was restored to favor. 

But several changes have taken place 
along the route since my earlier visit to this 
region. 

At Cape Chatte all vestiges of the demol- 
ished bridge have been removed, and a fine 
new structure now spans the Cape Chatte 
river. 

From the whilom peaceful heart of the 
Happy Valley a smoke stack now rises, and 
the buzz of a saw mill may there be heard 
during all hours of the operatives' day. 



*Saint Anne of the Mountains. 
14 



PREFATORY NOTE 

One of the most romantic heights of the 
Grande Riviere of Ste. Anne des Monts 
(a height overlooking the solitary camp 
where we halted at the close of our trout- 
quest) Is now^ crowned by a beautiful lodge; 
the property of the present owner of the trib- 
utary's fishing rights. 

In the village itself our attention is 
triumphantly directed toward several new 
and thoroughly modern dwellings. 

But no other evidence of progress Is quite 
so exultingly adduced as Is the announce- 
ment that Monsieur T 's apple tree has 

produced apples enough to make two pies ! 

Among the philosophical farmer's books 
we find a gentle story,* the scene of which is 
laid In the peaceful valley of Andorra. In 
bidding farewell to his readers the author 
ventures upon a friendly caution; a caution 
which may, with propriety, be here repro- 
duced. 

"Should any traveller whom this little re- 
cital may have interested, think of visiting 
the valley of Andorra, hoping to find there 
still the simple, patriarchal manners which 



*Le Val d'Andorre, by Elie Berthot. 
15 



PREFATORY NOTE 

we have attempted to portray, he might ex- 
perience a cruel disillusionment. In the 
Pyrenean republic, as elsewhere, thirty years 
have changed many things, and it would per- 
haps be better to rest content with the read- 
ing of this simple recital, rather than to dis- 
pel an agreeable dream by contact with a 
sad reality." 

New Brunswick, N. J., July 27, 19 12. 



16 



St. Anne of the Mountains 



A FAIRY DRIVE 

IT was a quarter past one In the morning 
of one of the longest days in the year. 
The maritime express, after having de- 
posited two passengers at Little Metis 
Station, had sped along its short cut through 
the Gaspe peninsula towards the Baie des 
Chaleurs. The friendly lights of the train 
had disappeared in the darkness, and the en- 
gine's hoarse voice was no longer heard; but 
the crescent moon looked benevolently down 
on us, and our young host's cheery greeting 
made any feeling of loneliness an impossibil- 
ity. 

Following in his wake we groped our way 
over the long dark platform to the point of 
light represented by the telegraph operator's 
lamp; and, after a few brief words with the 
solitary official, we passed on to a quaint lit- 
tle hotel at a short distance from the station. 
A feast of the best things which the inn af- 
forded was soon placed before us, and after 
having fortified the inner man, we unrolled 

17 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

our bundle of warm wraps and equipped our- 
selves for the journey proper; for the long 
railroad stretch with its far-off New Jersey 
starting point, represented the least important 
part of the expedition on which we had em- 
barked. We had reached the northern limit 
of the iron steed's domain in this region, and 
a drive of ninety miles lay before us. A bug- 
gy and a buckboard were the vehicles await- 
ing us; our host and his aide-de-camp were 
our charioteers, and at a quarter past two, 
encouraged by a faint foreshadowing of dawn, 
we set out on our wonderful drive. 

At first no sound other than the rumble of 
our carriage wheels and the clatter of our 
horses' hoofs fell upon the keen still air; but 
even before the beautiful scenery had begun 
to emerge from the land of shadows, a 
sweet clear voice floated out to us from the 
distant bush. It was Canada's own little 
herald — the white throated sparrow — sum- 
moning his fellow minstrels to a service of 
song. Up hill and down hill, now to the 
right and now to the left, sometimes in the 
open, again where deepening shadows told 
of wooded stretches, on we went, until at a 
distance of six miles from the station we 
i8 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

came upon the beautiful summer resort 
known also as Little Metis. Hotels, cot- 
tages, and those humbler dwellings which 
represent the homes of the habitants and 
the Scotch settlers, all faintly outhned in the 
steadily growing light, and all enveloped in 
the mysterious atmosphere of slumber. Not 
a sign, not a sound of human life anywhere. 
It was as if we alone had escaped from some 
marvellous spell which held all the rest of 
the world in enchantment. 

Yet something living, moving, ever wake- 
ful, came to light as we halted at the top of 
the hill below which lay the sleeping settle- 
ment. It was the great river, the majestic 
St. Lawrence, thirty-three miles in width at 
this point, and — except for the faint blue 
streak that outlines its bleak north shores — 
boundless as the sea in appearance. 

Next a wonderful light spread over the 
east and mirrored itself in the waters, and 
as we gazed 

"The crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
Grew into the great sun," 
and day had come; day startlingly bright and 
clear at a little after three in the morning. 

But even the full measure of daylight 
19 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

brought no scattering of the impressions of 
enchantment. Indeed the fanciful delusions 
were strengthened rather than dispelled, as 
we flew by one sleeping settlement after an- 
other. One could easily fancy one's self 
passing through a succession of enchanted 
villages in which the inhabitants were either 
about to awaken to the solitary day of con- 
sciousness vouchsafed to them at the close of 
every hundred years, or else as if — having 
gazed upon the upper world and enjoyed for 
a few brief hours the sight of the sun — 
they had again entered upon their century's 
sleep and were soon to disappear in the 
heart of the earth. 

The very cattle scattered over the fields or 
dispersed along the road were either asleep or 
grazing drowsily. Now and then a startled 
horse or cow bestowed a wondering glance 
in the direction of the flying vehicles, or a 
timid sheep gave an apprehensive bleat at our 
approach; or perhaps from a wayside cluster 
of recumbent pigs a sleepy grunt would Is- 
sue, and a pair of small, closely set eyes would 
blink inquiringly at us. 

One still heard an occasional single outburst 
of song, but the birds' concert closed at sun- 
20 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

rise, and the workaday world of feathered 
folk opened long before the dwellers in hu- 
man houses were astir. 

Now one of our own dear redbreasts would 
be seen in the familiar attitude of struggling 
with an unfortunate denizen of the turf. 
Again from the top of a rude fence post or 
from the heart of a patch of bunch berry 
blossoms, or perhaps from the moister re- 
gions where the blue flag lifts its head, a song 
sparrow would send a cheery greeting. Among 
the few diminutive balsam firs and other ever- 
greens that have sprung up here and there 
along the coast since the woodman's last de- 
vastating raid, warblers and vireos would dart, 
or the snow bird's natty gray and white coat 
would appear. Once a huge hawk sailed 
serenely along with an ill-fated fish in his se- 
cure grasp. Again a solitary wild goose sped 
on his way far above us. Now and then one 
saw the motionless figure of a belted king- 
fisher as he gazed steadfastly down from some 
rocky eminence into the little pools which the 
tide had deposited in the stony basins below 
his outlook point. Here and there gulls hov- 
ered around the shore while whole colonies of 
crows explored the furrows of the newly 

21 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ploughed fields or stalked the beach in search 
of fishy treasure. 

On the bosom of the great waters appeared 
now a brig, a schooner or a fishing smack; 
or again a gulf or an ocean steamer passed 
tranquilly on its way, distance robbing it of 
all suggestion of noise or effort. Nearer shore 
a train of dark dots on the surface of the wa- 
ters, or the outline of what suggested a zig- 
zag fence top, occasionally marked the regions 
where nets and traps were laid for the un- 
suspecting fish with which these waters teem. 

Finally the world represented by the strag- 
gling settlements began to awaken. First 
solitary faces, then groups of watchers ap- 
peared at doors and windows : young and old 
surveying us in silence and with an interest in 
which sleep still struggled for the mastery. 
But at sight of our four-footed travelling 
companion — a little Mexican dog whose tiny 
head peeped wonderingly out from a nest of 
warm wraps — every vestige of somnolence 
vanished. Tongues were suddenly loosened, 
hands and fingers were set gesticulating, heads 
bobbed and nodded, and from house to house 
as if following the course of a lighted fuse, 
passed such exclamations as: '^ Garde moi 
22 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

done ce beau petit chienf Bapteme c^est-i-finf 
Bonte, quelle belle petite tete. Et ces beaux 
yeux! Mon doux, quelle fine petite betel'' 

But enthusiasm and approval reached white 
heat whenever — in indignant response to the 
yelping curs which sprang out at us from 
every door way — the small voice of the val- 
iant Mexican was raised, and angry lunges 
were made by her in the direction of the ag- 
gressive canines of the coast. 

Before this general awakening there had 
been various amusing and animated demon- 
strations among certain other members of the 
four-footed tribe. Numbers of those long- 
legged, semi-wild porcines whose sharply 
outlined dorsal ridges have procured for 
them the suggestive appellation of razor 
backs, fell in with us now and then and socia- 
bly accompanied us for short distances ; while 
frolicsome calves, with stiffened legs and 
tails erect and wildly waving, challenged our 
flying steeds and scampered madly along be- 
side us — or even in advance of us — as if in 
keen enjoyment of the spirited race. The 
swiftest horses find these playful creatures no 
mean competitors in short runs. 

But whether we watched the antics of 

23 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

these sportive roadside companions or noted 
the demeanor of the more sedate and distant 
cattle, whether we looked at the villagers 
and their simple dwellings; or allowed our 
eyes to rest on the hills and meadows, to 
roam along the coast line, to wander out 
over the great river or to explore the depths 
of the cloudless sky, one strange, almost 
thrilling sensation accompanied every glance. 
To our host this sensation appealed less 
powerfully than to us. In his case many 
months of matter-of-fact consideration of 
the business possibilities of this region had 
routed much poetic appreciation; and as for 
Narcisse, our second charioteer, his eyes had 
first opened on these scenes; his world did 
not extend beyond them, and whatever they 
had to offer appeared to awaken in him 
neither surprise nor any other emotion. 

But to my sister and myself, dwellers in 
regions not characterized by the marvellous 
atmospheric clearness of far northern lands, 
it was as if we had hitherto seen the world 
through a glass, darkly, or as if scales had 
suddenly fallen from our eyes, revealing 
earth, sea and sky with startling distinctness. 
Nor has this sensation lost its intensity 
24 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

though weeks have elapsed since we took 
our fairy drive; though the wild phlox now 
rears its stately head far above the meadow 
grasses, though the purple vetch twines its 
arms around tall daisies and immortelles, 
though the bunch berries are reddening and we 
stand on the threshold of the feast of la 
bonne Sainte Anne. 

Now it is a Calvary that claims our at- 
tention as we speed on our way, for large 
black crosses are stationed here and there all 
along the coast, and receive many a tribute 
in the form of salutations from devout pass- 
ers. Again a spire rises far above the vil- 
lage houses; churches at intervals of ten 
miles marking the centres of the various 
parishes and representing the points around 
which cluster the greatest interests of these 
small communities. And always in the shad- 
ow of the church is to be seen the God's 
acre, with its forest of wooden crosses, and 
its very few monuments of more durable ma- 
terial. 

Here and there are wayside ovens; quaint, 
Dutch-like stone and mortar constructions, 
some among them elevated, perhaps with a 
considerate thought of the convenience of 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

the baker — and roofed with a view to pro- 
tection from inclement weather, others shel- 
terless, and built directly on the ground as 
if some gigantic bird had deposited on the 
shore a mammoth egg, leaving to the ele- 
ments the entire responsibility of its hatch- 
ing. 

Now through the wide open iron doors of 
one of these great ovens, we see the leaping 
flames and we hear the fire's mad roaring 
and crackling, and we know that baking 
preparations are under way. Again we come 
upon an oven, the heavy doors of which are 
closed; but heated vapors playing about it 
tell the story of glowing embers recently 
raked out from the heart of the mortar 
mound, while an appetizing fragrance of 
fresh bread denotes that huge loaves are 
immured in the heated receptacle. Without 
farther care or fuel they reach the perfec- 
tion of baking. 

Not every family is fortunate enough to 
own an outdoor oven, but under no circum- 
stances does one of these primitive contriv- 
ances represent a household's sole dependence 
as a cooking apparatus, the stand-by in nearly 
every coast house being the large, two-storied 
26 



\ 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

box stove, (fire-place below, oven above), 
which Is so invaluable in its capacity as a heat- 
er and so well adapted to the requirements of 
simple cooking. Standing, as it usually does 
between two rooms — sometimes placed in such 
a position that one end projects even into a 
third apartment, while its pipe passes through 
the upper part of the house — it diffuses 
warmth through the entire dwelling and is 
said to enable those in whose houses it is 
placed, to bid defiance to the coldest weather. 

The road over which our route lay, even in 
its entire length, departs from the coast but 
in three or four instances, and then for a com- 
paratively short distance. These rare devia- 
tions generally represent the avoidance of 
points where the coast is either too steep or 
too rocky to afford a passageway even for pe- 
destrians. 

But it was only in the third section of our 
drive that we came upon entire departures 
from the coast, or hills of any Importance. 
Apart from two or three rather stony excep- 
tions, we had to do with none but boulevard- 
like roads on the occasion of this early drive. 

From point to point of the great curves 
by which the coast is outlined, stretches of 
27 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

from ten to thirty miles are represented, and 
all along these magnificent sweeps following 
ever the course of the widening river, runs 
the road lined with the homes of the Gaspe 
folk. 

Between the abodes of the comparatively 
well-to-do and the humble homes consisting of 
one lower room and a loft — the latter dwell- 
ings as a rule the habitations of fisher folk — 
various stages of comfort are represented; but 
among these people cases of actual destitution 
are so rare as to be almost unknown. 

"To find what may be termed genuine pov- 
erty," says a philosophical habitant, whose ac- 
quaintance we made shortly after arriving at 
Ste. Anne des Monts, "one must look to the 
great cities, for in those centres one meets with 
the truly destitute, the utterly impoverished, 
the desperate. Among us Gaspeslans there 
may indeed be found families In distress, but 
such cases are rare and always speedily re- 
lieved; for each one, according to his ability, 
Is ever ready to contribute from his stores to 
the need of his poorer brethren. We have our 
hard times, it is true, and among us are few 
of what you term life's luxuries, but unless a 
Gaspesian loses his way In the bush, or in some 
28 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

other manner becomes separated from his fel- 
lows, he stands in no danger of either starv- 
ing or freezing." 

Whenever our thoughts reverted to the 
people and the scenes we had left so far be- 
hind, the sensations we experienced were not 
unlike those with which one is apt to invest 
supposed recent arrivals in strange planets; 
the former conditions so soon appearing re- 
mote and misty, the new and actual experi- 
ences so startling and unreal. Even a mat- 
ter of fact question concerning the time of 
day brought to light such whimsicalities of 
reckoning as we had never before encount- 
ered except in the emancipated kingdom of 
dream land. Regarding this important mat- 
ter unanimity of opinion does not always 
prevail even among those who dwell within 
sound of the angelus bell. 

But to cite the most amusing illustration 
which has come to our notice anent this sub- 
ject, I must anticipate a little. 

A fortnight or so after our long drive had 
come to an end — at which period we began 
to look upon ourselves almost in the light of 
naturalized Gaspesians — we were spending 
the day in a little settlement hidden from the 
29 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

St. Lawrence by a short line of coast hills, 
and distant from our seaside abode some 
three miles. It is not without reason that 
our affectionate fancy persists in designating 
this back-country nook by the name of the 
Happy Valley. One man and his wife with 
their numerous olive branches are the sole 
mhabitants of this lovely lowland, though on 
the heights which dominate the valley at the 
point farthest removed from the coast, are 
perched the old homestead and two or three 
other dwellings, all inhabited by relatives of 
the valley clan. 

On the day of the visit to which I allude, 
the weather was as genial as the hearts that 
bade us welcome, and the happy hours sped 
by all unheeded until one of our party — 
awakening suddenly to a realization of the 
fact that night must follow the bright day 
and that we were due at our seaside home 
before dark — set on foot inquiries regard- 
ing the hour. We had brought no watches, 
and though this Happy Valley home is well 
provided with clocks, our cause was not ben- 
efited thereby, as all save one were out of 
order; and this sole active timepiece, had 
been carried to the fields by the laborers. 
30 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

*'But after all what signifies it?" exclaimed 
the head of the house, turning suddenly from 
the earnest though futile contemplation of a 
clock that had long served none but decora- 
tive purposes. "What need have we to know 
the time ? When we are hungry we will eat, 
when thirsty, drink, and when tired, rest. Such 
hospitality as our simple home offers we place 
de grand coeiir at the ladies' service, and will 
be happy indeed if they think it worthy of 
acceptance. So let the darkness come if it 
will, I say. It need disturb no one here." 

A moment after the uttering of this reas- 
surance, chance brought to light the amusing 
and significant fact that among us all there 
was not found one who could tell the day of 
the month. To such blissful ignorance and 
restful forgetfulness had we so soon attained. 

"To know the day of the month, neither 
does that signify," the Happy Valley host re- 
marked as if by way of general consolation. 
"Sunday is but two days distant. If one keeps 
that date in mind what matters it about all 
others?" 

Original and refreshing as this method of 
reckoning may be in itself, we could not help 
acknowledging that the happy-go-lucky spirit 
31 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

which prompted it might sorely try the soul 
of any business man whose interests it touches. 
But, to those among us who have no concern 
beyond reaping the full benefits and privileges 
of a summer holiday, this leisurely state of 
affairs does not in the least "signify." 

Matane — a prosperous town of about three 
thousand inhabitants, represented our first 
halting place and the accomplishment of one- 
third of our coast journey; and with a sudden 
turning of a corner, we wheeled away from 
the St. Lawrence and immediately found our- 
selves bowling over the planked streets of this 
prosperous settlement. 

The river Matane, with its path through 
a rich lumber district and its terminus in the 
St. Lawrence, is of course the raison d!etre 
of the town. On account of possessing simi- 
lar advantages — though in a lesser degree — 
many a smaller river or stream of this re- 
gion has its corresponding coast settlement 
and its mill. But reckoning from the point 
where the railroad departs from the coast, 
no town or village approaches Matane in 
prosperity or importance, as no river equals 
its river either in size or lumbering advan- 
tages, until the peninsula has been rounded, 

32 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

and the important settlements on Its other 
side have been reached. 

Matane has Its poorer quarter and its dis- 
tinctly Gaspeslan characteristics, but it boasts 
of handsome modern residences, of public 
buildings, of well-equipped stores, of a fine 
convent, a beautiful presbytery and an impos- 
ing church, and its appointments in general are 
so similar to those of any other small, modern, 
well-to-do community that, although we found 
the town interesting enough when we were 
awake, it possessed no qualities startling or sa- 
lient enough to cope with the drowsiness that 
had suddenly overtaken us. So while await- 
ing a fitting hour in which to present our- 
selves to the kind host and hostess with whom 
we were to breakfast, we betook ourselves to 
a little hotel, and were soon fast asleep. 



33 



II 

AGAIN EN ROUTE 

EARLY In the afternoon of the fol- 
lowing day we resumed our journey, 
and towards evening we reached 
the region where hills begin to be 
steep and numerous, and where houses — 
even in the open — are few; where roads, 
though In fair condition in the main, are 
rough and stony in sections; where forests 
creep coastward and brooks rush noisily 
over boulders or force their way through 
accumulated "bush" refuse, and at last 
through an opening in the trees we caught 
a glimpse of the house on the cliff-side, the 
dwelling where food and shelter and rest 
awaited us. 

Ruisseau a Sem, our second halting place 
had been reached, and our second thirty- 
mile-stretch was accomplished. 

It Is hardly necessary to state that our ap- 
petites had become well sharpened by the long 
drive and the tonic air and we responded with 
alacrity to the summons to dine. After hav- 
ing done full justice to an excellent repast, we 
34 



ST. ANNE OP THE MOUNTAINS 

strolled out among the trees where we expect- 
ed to find bed-time arrangements well under 
way with the little people of the wood. But 
many a parent bird was still occupied with the 
distribution of nursery supplies; and the 
friendliness of one little snow-bird mother 
made It possible for us to watch closely the 
progress of a meal among the branches, from 
the time when four wide-opened beaks thrust 
themselves above the nest's rim, until the mo- 
ment when their owners sank back, drowsy 
and satisfied and twittered themselves off into 
slumber-land. 

A fond if foolish fancy suggested to me 
that this little mother might be one of the 
very pensioners who, during the recent win- 
ter's stress, had partaken of the bounty of my 
window-sill restaurant In the far off New Jer- 
sey home. 

But everything connected with our new sur- 
roundings was of a nature to Inspire fanciful 
conjecture. With the magic of the quaint- 
ness, the solitude and the vastness, was blend- 
ed the forest's mystic charm. One pine-clad 
height after another lifted its head against a 
sky where sunset reflections still lingered, 
though the tardy twilight-influence was begln- 

35 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ning to make itself felt. 

Into the mysterious recesses where trees 
pressed hard upon each other, heavy shadows 
were fast creeping. Sweet Canada, Canada, 
Canada, sang the white-throat at longer and 
longer intervals; but at last even his brave 
little voice was hushed and no sound reached 
us save the murmurs of the wind-swept trees 
and the voices of the waves as they broke at 
the base of our cliff. 

Dews were falling, night's coolness was 
increasing and a certain sense of loneliness 
mingled with the solemn influences of the 
hour. Through the uncurtained windows of 
the house among the trees (our Matane host's 
summer resort) we caught glimpses of open 
fire-places where dancing flames spoke elo- 
quently of the comfort and friendliness of 
home and home shelter, and yielding at length 
to the cheery summons from within, we left 
the forest with its ever deepening shadows, its 
ever growing mysteries, and joined the groups 
assembled round the genial firesides. 

It seemed but an hour from the time 
when sleep claimed us all for her own till 
the night's shadows were dispelled by the 
brightness of the early morning, and the 

36 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

wooded peaks stood out against the crimson 
glory of the rising siin, and all bird-land 
was engrossed in daytime duties and de- 
hghts. But the little settlement at Ruisseau 
a Sem still slept, and the mill in the cove at 
the cliff's base was still idle, for the long 
days are utilized to their utmost by none 
but the children of the field and of the for- 
est. 

Noontide of this bright, warm day saw 
us again en route, entering upon the third, 
the final section of our journey. Beyond the 
wooded peaks that bounded our eastern 
horizon at Ruisseau a Sem, new beauties, 
new mysteries and new revelations awaited 
us. Now the St. Lawrence is hidden for a 
moment; now it comes to sight through a 
forest opening, or again the removal of all 
barriers reveals beautiful long coast curves 
with far off limiting points suggesting still 
other wonderful sweeps. Here we come up- 
on a solitary dwelling planted in the midst 
of a great lonely open expanse, while anoth- 
er isolated home nestles among scrub pines 
or rises from boulder wastes. Again the 
road assumes the character of a village 
street and a church crowns a hill top or lifts 

37 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Its spire in a valley's heart. Here we have 
an instance — one of many — where a parent 
village and its offspring are distinguished by 
the contradistinctive appellations of grand 
and petit. Grand Mechin, picturesque and 
peopled, (speaking from the standpoint of 
small, one-streeted villages) Petit Mechin, 
a sort of dependence, a straggling inferior 
continuation of the larger settlement. 

Now we reach Capucin, so called from a 
monk-like resemblance which once distin- 
guished one of the rocks of this promontory 
— a resemblance which wind and frosty 
agencies have long since obliterated, how- 
ever. 

Capucin represents the wildest, the most 
rugged and the most varied scenery of our 
route, and the road here takes its longest and 
most important departure from the coast. We 
hear our guides canvassing tide conditions 
and discussing the feasibility of crossing the 
bay or the advisability of taking the longer 
route which the deep coast indentation sug- 
gests. But the tide is low and favors the 
short cut, so in and out, where the water is 
most shallow and the rocky bed offers the 
best thoroughfare, the horses pick their way 

38 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

across the bay. As we advance we meet oth- 
ers who, like ourselves, are taking advan- 
tage of the low tide to avoid the longer 
route. A little band of children returning 
from school, with shoes, stockings and 
school bags swung over their shoulders, are 
wading and splashing their way homeward 
and salute us politely as we meet among the 
shallows. 

The rocky bed once passed we resume our 
usual speed, and on we go until another point, 
some miles distant, comes to view. It is Cape 
Chat, (or Cape Chatte,) and indicates the 
site of an important signal station. As we 
near the promontory we notice, facing sea- 
ward at its base, a rugged stony offshoot, re- 
motely suggestive of a lion rampant, but in- 
variably designated as the Cat. Perhaps no 
object along this entire south shore attracts 
more notice from passing tourists, than does 
this fantastic figure which nature must have 
spent ages in fashioning and detaching from 
its promontory. 

The village of Cape Chatte, which we en- 
ter a mile or so after passing the cape proper, 
reaches an almost fortress-like elevation be- 
fore making its sudden descent to the shores 
of the bay which represents the meeting-place 
39 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of the Cape Chatte river and the St. Law- 
rence. The prosperous looking house of the 
owner of a large mill and the representative of 
important lumber interests in this region, 
crowns the cliff and terminates the upper vil- 
lage, while at the foot of the hill and along 
the narrow strip of land which indicates the 
bay's outer boundary, we see an occasional 
dwelling, a store or two and various large 
buildings connected with the mill. A skiff is 
In sight and a few boats at anchor sway gent- 
ly in response to the outgoing tide. But, 
though the sea Is ebbing, the bay boasts of 
volume and current sufficient to interfere with 
the progress of our journey, while of the long, I 

covered bridge which once spanned the stream 
and furnished an independent highway for 
foot or wagon travel, nothing remains but 
two dilapidated ends. The enormous blocks 
of ice which charged against the structure at 
the time of winter's recent breaking-up are re- 
sponsible for these no-thoroughfare condi- 
tions. 

On the brink of the bay at the foot of the 

steep hill, however, a ferryman awaits us; 

and, without alighting from our vehicles, we 

embark In a scow operated on the groove and 

40 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

cable system, and if the crossing is slow, it 
has at least the merit of being accomplished 
by an unusual sense of security, for our bark 
is, in a measure, moored to both shores. 

Now at our right, far above the nearby 
hills, we see the beautiful outlines of the dis- 
tant Schickshock mountains. Bleak, grim and 
wild in reality — though with suggestions of 
great wealth in their stony hearts — but soft, 
blue and mystical at the point from which we 
view them. Little time is allowed us for their 
contemplation, however, for our horses are 
advancing with the added zest which the last 
stage of the journey inspires, and their flying 
feet meet with no resistance in the beautiful, 
firm beach-road over which we are travelling. 
New curves and sweeps continue to unfold be- 
fore us, until at last we reach la pointe Ste. 
Anne. Now we pass it, and to our admiring 
eyes is revealed the entire beautiful ten mile 
curve, the wide, graceful bay along whose 
shores extends the village of Ste. Anne des 
Monts; our village. Near the center of the 
curve, hence still distant some four or five 
miles, is our cottage : a remote white speck, 
one link in a long line of similar dwellings. 
Even at this distance, however, a certain sense 
41 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of being at home takes possession of us, and 
in the respectful salutations of the villagers 
whom we meet or overtake, we fancy we detect 
more than average friendliness and interest. 
We are keen to be at the journey's end and to 
look into the faces of those who are watching 
for us, but within less than half a mile of our 
destination our course is again interrupted, 
and we halt at another intercepting river's 
brink, the Ste. Anne des Monts or Grande 
Riviere, as it is called in contradistinction to 
the smaller stream which meets the St. Law- 
rence a mile farther down the coast. 

On this occasion, also, we find the waiting 
ferryman and are taken over in a scow. Once 
on the other side of the stream the remaining 
stretch is a matter of a very few minutes, 
and at last the ninety mile drive is over and, 
hungry and stiff, but happy, we alight before 
the comfortable little habitant house which is 
home to us for the present. Here we are met 
by respectful greetings and words of genuine 
welcome, and even from across the road where 
a company of barefooted children are explor- 
ing the beach — our beach — we receive such 
salutations as royalty itself might call forth. 

But suddenly one of the explorers, pointing 
impressively in the direction from which we 
42 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

have just come, exclaims: '"Garde done! 
'Garde done le mirage!"* 

Our gaze follows the indicating finger, 
and behold, a miracle has taken place. At 
the distant Pointe Ste. Anne where, but a 
short time ago, we passed a row of lowly 
dwellings, stately mansions now rise, their 
many windows all ablaze with the reflected 
light of the setting sun. Out at sea a coal 
steamer has exchanged its cranes and masts 
for a line of tall trees, a passenger steamer 
has lost its prosaic smoke stack and doubled 
the dimensions of its hull, a full-rigged 
barque replaces a modest sloop, and off to- 
wards the gulf, in regions where the water line 
has vanished, phantom ships sail majestically 

in space. . 

"What need have these little ones of fairy 
tales or of conjurors' displays," we exclaim. 
"They dwell in the very land of enchant- 
ment, and kindly indeed is the fate which 
permits us to rest for a time within these 
magic precincts." 

"~*This phenomenon is due to some peculiar atmos- 
pheric effect and is frequently witnessed m this local- 
ity Our villagers term it le mirage, yet it is not a 
reproduction of distant, unseen objects, but an enlarg- 
ing, a multiplying, and sometimes even a reversing of 
objects visibk along the distant shore or out at sea. 

43 



Ill 



SOME PRACTICAL DETAILS OF THE 
ENCHANTED COUNTRY 

THE sea was in a quiet mood and 
all its influences were soothing on 
the evening of our first day of en- 
chantment, and it was to the mu- 
sic of the softly incoming tide, to the regu- 
lar beating of gently breaking surf, that we 
fell asleep. But even with this wonderful 
lullaby sounding in our ears, it is probable 
that our minds would not have been so se- 
cure nor our slumbers so peaceful, had not 
another important feature of enchanted re- 
gions paved the way for the later experience. 
What fairy tale of travel or adventure 
ever reaches a satisfactory culmination until 
the weary and half-famished wanderer is 
conducted to the banqueting hall, where un- 
seen hands place before him a tangible re- 
past of surpassing excellence, while ravish- 
ing music produced by invisible performers, 
delights his ear, banishing for the time all 
remembrance of past hardships and dispell- 
ing all fear of future peril. 
44 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

As we sat in our cheery, homely little din- 
ing room, an outward glance procured for 
us a sight of the source of all the melodies 
that soothed and charmed us, while honest 
hands of flesh and blood — not of enchant- 
ment — served us. But no fairy orchestra 
could rival the harmony of the voices of the 
sea, and as for the repast spread before us, 
it seemed to us famished ones fit for the ta- 
ble of a monarch. 

Much speculation with regard to the 
scope of our Northern cuisine had kept pace 
with our preparations for the journey, and 
the comfortable stay-at-homes who viewed 
with disfavor the entire expedition, pre- 
dicted for us none but Arctic weather and a 
scarcity of any but the coarsest food. In is- 
suing his invitation our host had generously 
promised the best which the land affords, but 
just how much this represented, delicacy for- 
bade our asking. So while awaiting the reve- 
lations of experience, we did our best to ban- 
ish all disloyal apprehension, as well as to 
recall every helpful expedient devised and 
employed by the clever author of "Twelve 
Miles from a Lemon." In our remote sta- 
tion, the several times multiplied perplexities 
45 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

and limitations of this hostess of ante-trolley 
and automobile days would certainly be ours 
we reasoned in our ignorance. We had yet 
to become acquainted with the resources of 
the coast and the skill of our prospective 
landlady. 

Not long after our arrival we had the 
pleasure of seeing our early surprise and sat- 
isfaction reproduced in guests who gathered 
with us around the hospitable board. Among 
them were those who had seen many phases 
of hfe in both continents, yet never, they 
averred, had they been so surprised by the 
resources of any region, as by the abund- 
ance which our table represented. Alas ! that 
such wealth of material should find so few, 
who, like our landlady, know how to use it 
to advantage. In nearly every case except 
where she is concerned, our experiences in 
this locality give double emphasis to the as- 
sertion of the old adage regarding the ori- 
gin of food supplies and cooks. 

In our menu figure soups of unrivalled ex- 
cellence; salmon as rich as butter; cod that 
fairly melts in one's mouth ; haddock with all 
the freshness of the sea's finest flavor; de- 
licious smelts, herrings, lobsters and all the 

46 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

other fishy yields of the generous St. Law- 
rence, as well as those far-famed specialties of 
its tributaries, the highly-prized brook and 
salmon trout. 

Of meats we have the usual market sup- 
plies, even to such delicacies as beef tongues 
and sweet breads. An unlimited supply of 
the best of butter is always at our disposal 
and a generous allowance of sweet cream fig- 
ures daily in our menu. The milk and egg 
supplies appear to be inexhaustible and the 
bread — though solid In character — has an ex- 
cellent flavor. 

The potato yield of this region Is a pros- 
perous one, and with late summer come beets, 
turnips, carrots, cabbages, beans and peas; 
and radishes and lettuce thrive from early till 
late. Strawberries and raspberries from our 
own neighborhood, and blueberries from the 
north shore are to be had In abundance in 
their season, but In the fruit and vegetable 
lines we find the vulnerable points of our lar- 
der. Even hardy apples are here so much of 
a rarity that the sight of "an apple tree with 
fruit on It," was proposed to us as the worthy 
goal of a long expedition. 

Tinned fruits and vegetables are to be ob- 
47 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

talned at the village stores and often serve to 
extend our bill of fare. But we are not alto- 
gether dependent on such additions, for once 
a week we may have opportunities of obtain- 
ing supplies from either Montreal or Quebec, 
as two steamers from these points alternate in 
making tours around the peninsula. The Gas- 
pesian going as far as Gaspe; the Campana* 
continuing till the remote Pictou is reached. 
It was to the care of one of these boats that 
we committed our baggage, and but for a 
slight uncertainty, a possible hitch connected 
with landing, we would probably have em- 
barked with our trunks instead of following 
the land route. Under favorable circum- 
stances Ste. Anne des Monts is but a twenty- 
four hour steamer journey from Quebec, but, 
as is the case with water craft In general, wind 
and weather may retard the steamer's prog- 
ress, and in this particular Instance, may In- 
terfere with the traveller's very natural de- 
sire to halt at his destination. 

"We do not undertake to land passengers at 
Ste. Anne des Monts," was the word received 
from the steamer companies In answer to our 



*Since this was written the Campana has suffered 
shipwreck. It is replaced by the Cascapedia. 

48 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

queries on the subject. ^'Weather permitting 
we stop off Ste. Anne des Monts to land pas- 
sengers. They are taken ashore on boats 
which come out to the steamer." 

Once a week we watch the outgoing, and 
once a week the incoming Gulf Steamers. 
For the latter we look toward the east and 
jubilant is the mortal who first sights the 
boat as it rounds the point of La Tourelle; 
a point where the waters of the St. Law- 
rence merge into the gulf and an ocean-like 
expanse spreads itself out before one's eyes. 

It is in the direction of Cape Chatte that 
the first glimpse of the outward bound 
Steamer is obtained. But whether the boat 
be incoming or outgoing, equal excitement 
attends the event, unless indeed some unus- 
ual arrival or departure, or the shipping or 
receiving of some particular cargo, furnishes 
the ever interesting occasion with an added 
zest. 

A rallying cry such as *'V^la le Campana/' 
or Le Gaspesien qui arrive,'' suffices to bring 
dozens of cottagers to their doors and on 
each of these occasions every available spy 
glass is brought into requisition, and com- 
ment is as eager and interest as keen as 

49 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

though the occurrence were the sole one of 
the kind which the season affords. 

If, even for us, the Incident is fraught 
with such import, how much more does it 
mean to these coast dwellers who, during 
all the long desolate months of winter, look 
out on an ice-locked bay beyond which 
stretches an apparently boundless waste of 
angry Ice-charged waters over which no ves- 
sels dare to venture. 

One day I observed the philosopher- 
farmer (mention of whom has already been 
made In these pages), as through a very In- 
different spyglass, he followed the course of 
a steamer. I gave him an opportunity of 
testing my marine glasses, and though he 
appeared duly Impressed with their excel- 
lence he remarked as he returned them: ''A 
great many thanks but voyez-vous Madame, 
for me there would be no economy in a dou- 
ble glass. I have the sight of but one eye, 
therefore a single glass serves my purpose 
perfectly." 

"The misfortune came about in this way" 

he continued. In answer to our sympathetic 

inquiries. "When I was a very little lad I 

fell on a pitchfork and one of the prongs en- 

50 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

tered my eye." 

"But what agony you must have en- 
dured," we exclaimed, shuddering at the 
very thought of the catastrophe. 

"As to that, I cannot say," he replied 
calmly, "I was such a little lad you see. But 
wait; I remember distinctly that on that day 
I ate no dinner. I think therefore I must 
have been much hurt." 

As a rule it is from the immediate neigh- 
borhood of our cottage that we view the ap- 
proaching and departing steamers, but now 
and then, in order to watch manoeuvres from 
the outset, we stroll to the points of the shore 
from which passengers set out on their journey 
to the steamer, or at which they alight on 
their arrival at Ste. Anne des Monts. These 
points are represented by two comparatively 
sheltered portions of the bay. 

At the upper station, if tide conditions be 
such that the rocks — ^when too exposed to af- 
ford a thoroughfare for row boats — still re- 
tain in their hollows, pools of sufficient im- 
portance to exclude foot travel, a horse and 
cart are called into requisition for the first 
stage of the steamerward journey, and through 
their medium the rocks are passed and the 
SI 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

row boats reached. 

Under more favorable conditions, passen- 
gers step directly from the shore Into the row 
boat which carries them out to a waiting trans- 
port. From this point a sail of a mile or so 
takes them to the passenger steamer. 

At the second of the landing or embarking 
points, the coast is not a rocky one and the 
transport not Infrequently comes so near the 
shore, that a wheeled vehicle can draw up be- 
side it, and the passenger steps directly from 
cart or carriage into the lighter. 

In the near neighborhood of this second 
port there is a small wharf, at which, under 
still other tide conditions, the transport 
draws up, and in this case the passenger can 
embark or debark without aid of either ve- 
hicle or row boat. 

It would be interesting to ascertain how 
many pairs of eyes are fastened on the trav- 
ellers during their transit from shore to 
steamer, or vice versa. Every disengaged 
villager is sure to be on the watch; and tour- 
ists, armed with long range glasses and cam- 
eras, line the steamer's railings. Rich in- 
deed must be the harvest on occasions when 
the weather favors photographic enter- 
prises. 

5» 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Not once since our coming to Ste. Anne 
des Monts have the transports failed to meet 
the steamers, although to us timid inlanders 
the sea occasionally appears too rough for 
the safety of the undertaking. Especially is 
this the case when — as sometimes happens, 
— the steamer arrives after dark. Then 
dancing lights, which finally lose themselves 
in a great shaft of radiance emanating from 
the passenger boat, mark the outward course 
of the brave little transports. After the 
transfer of passengers and cargo has been 
effected, the brilhant lights of the steamer 
twinkle off in the direction of either La 
Tourelle or Cape Chatte, while a will o' the 
wisp trail of small boats points toward the 
signal lights of our shore. 

It is in early spring and during late au- 
tumn, at the time of the opening and closing 
of navigation, that the transfer is attended 
with great difficulty, and sometimes rendered 
impossible. When the plan of disembark- 
ing at a transport station has been defeated, 
passengers must either resign themselves to 
being carried on till a friendly port is reached 
or must remain on the steamer and await the 
stopping-off chances of the return journey. 

53 



IV 
WITH THE VILLAGERS 

THE balmy weather that greeted 
our arrival at Ste. Anne des Monts 
was a misleading specimen of the 
average mid- June of this locality; 
nor can the cold weather which speedily fol- 
lowed be accepted as a fair indication of the 
usual temperature of the season. Gaspe's 
normal June is said to stand midway between 
these extremes. 

After that first balmy week there were days 
when the breakers' crests sparkled with an al- 
most frosty radiance and an autumn crispness 
filled the air though the sun shone brightly. 
There were other days when the sea became 
dark and clouds lowering and threatening, and 
in the accomplishment of these menaces, the 
rain dashed against our windows with such 
fury that the whole outer world was hidden 
by the sleety curtain. Nevertheless, well knew 
we what was taking place outside our peaceful 
precincts, for the wind told the story of the 
wild warfare of the elements, and the tim- 
bers of our little house groaned and creaked 
S4 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

as the gales pursued their frenzied sports. 

Were we lonely during these hours of tem- 
pest? Did the ninety miles railroad remote- 
ness assume terrifying proportions when the 
storm made the Intervening journey an Impos- 
sibility? 

No ; loneliness found no quarter among us, 
and some measure of the spirit of these fear- 
less coast dwellers seemed to Impart Itself to 
us, and we learned to love the tempests' wild 
echoes. 

One of our stormiest nights furnished us 
with as peaceful a contrast as It would be 
possible to Imagine. No outgoing or Incom- 
ing steamers summoned our bargemen from 
the shelter of their homes, and no fisher folk 
were abroad; therefore our minds were free 
from concern regarding the safety of our vil- 
lagers. As for vessels which might be pass- 
ing on the sea's highway, no especial danger 
seemed to threaten them. It was near the 
coast that peril lurked. 

So on this evening while the surf pounded 
against the rocks just over the way from our 
little cottage, and the wind walled and the 
rain fell In torrents, wc sat secure In our 
brightly lighted little assembling room, occu- 

ISS; 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

pylng ourselves with books, games, letter-writ- 
ing, or quiet chat and the odds and ends of 
work which, during fair weather, had called 
in vain for attention. Our warm red curtains 
were drawn ; the fires of our box stove crack- 
eled merrily, and through a door leading out 
into the ell — the quarters of those who served 
us — another picture of peace and comfort pre- 
sented itself. There also the curtains were 
drawn and the fires sent a sprightly challenge 
to the storm ; and around other lamps a little 
group assembled, and gave itself to quiet even- 
ing pursuits. 

Now and then, from this outer quarter, 
there floated to us softly sung snatches of 
lullabies or of plaintive folk-songs; or por- 
tions of cantiques which, blending and con- 
trasting with the tempest's roars, intensified 
our peaceful sense of security. 

An evening or so later when the Storm- 
King had gone his way and the graciousness 
of summer once more manifested itself, we 
found ourselves during the course of a 
moonlit stroll, in the neighborhood of the 
philosopher's home. He sat with his wife 
and children before their quiet dwelling, and 
the tranquil faces were turned seaward 

56 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

toward the region where serene waters re- 
placed the billows of the recent storm. In 
the utter quiet of the hour, the subdued 
voices of our humble friends reached us with 
perfect distinctness, and almost in spite of 
ourselves, we followed the course of their 
conversation. 

The day's mail had brought word of the 
world's disquiet, and the philosopher who, 
even in this remote region keeps fully abreast 
of the times, was telling his family of wars 
and rumors of wars and of such terrible 
stress as could be known to these people 
only by hearsay. 

'^Sainte Mere! Bonne Sainte Anne! Est-ce 
croyable!'' These and many other like ejacu- 
lations of wondering interest kept pace with 
the philosopher's calm but forcible recital, 
and at its close a hush fell upon the group. 
When the silence was broken it was a little 
lad who spoke. 

"We are well in our own country. Let us 
remain here." 

"Thou art right, my little son," answered 
the father. "We are indeed well in our 
own country. Our land is not rich enough 
to attract the multiude to our shores, nor 

57 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

are our people important enough to draw 
upon themselves the attention of the great. 
True we have much of winter's severity, but 
summer gives us only its tempered heat. 
None of the luxuries of the rich are ours, 
and we must labor to provide for our daily 
needs ; but our few wants are all met and we 
escape the ennui which I am told, is apt to 
be the portion of those who have too much 
leisure and comfort, too many possessions. 
There is for us no theatre, no opera, no con- 
cert-going, but we have life's simple amuse- 
ments and happinesses, and, believe me, they 
are the best. As for music, thou wilt never 
hear grander than that of the sea, and in 
what gallery of the world's great masters, 
think'st thou, could one find such pictures as 
are ours simply for a look at the good God's 
beautiful earth and sky? Thou say'st right, 
my child, we are well in our own country. 
Let us remain here." 

One day as I was returning from a field 
ramble taken in the company of a little girl 
from the village, I stopped to rest in a balsam 
fir retreat, a nook regarding which I shall 
have somewhat to say later. The child seat- 
ed herself opposite me, and settling down as 

58 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

if In anticipation of a rare treat, she said: 
"Will Madame please tell me what it Is like 
in the streets of New York?" 

For a moment I gazed in silence at the In- 
nocent, expectant, upturned face. Her fin- 
gers were stained with the juice of wild straw- 
berries; at her feet lay a bunch of field flow- 
ers; the balsam fir branches met behind her 
and closed above her head, and on all sides 
echoed the songs of birds. A flock of sheep 
grazed in a nearby field, while from more 
remote meadows came the tinkle of a cow 
bell. 

After the contemplation of this picture of 
peace and rural innocence, I proceeded to tell 
the child of the city's din and clamor; of steam 
cars thundering over head; of electric cars 
clanging through the streets, and of still other 
cars flying along through pathways hollowed 
out for them below the city's surface. I told 
her of a labyrinth of carriages and wagons 
and drays; of lightning-speed horseless ve- 
hicles; of a perpetual throng of hurrying, 
anxious-faced people, of congested corners 
where crowds awaited a policeman's guidance 
before daring to cross to the opposite side of 
the street, and of districts where buildings 
59 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

rose to such heights as made one dizzy to con- 
template, and of ships that were beginning to 
sail through the skies. 

But I told her also of glittering store win- 
dows; of beautiful houses and churches; of 
wide streets where finely dressed people 
walked leisurely or drove in ease and safety. 
I told her of squares gay with flowers and 
merry with children at play, of Bronx and 
Central Park marvels, of great cages where 
were to be seen strange animals from all parts 
of the world, and birds of a plumage to rival 
the brightest blossoms of which even the Hap- 
py Valley garden could boast. I told her of 
beautiful archways and winding paths; of 
wide avenues shaded by trees of such dimen- 
sions as her northern forests never produced, 
and of placid lakes where floated friendly 
swans or glided fanciful boats freighted with 
children and grown-up merry makers. 

Of these and many other pleasant things I 
spoke enticingly, and her eyes opened wider 
and wider as she listened. But at the close of 
the recital she shook her head. Then with a 
sigh of contentment she leaned back among 
the friendly branches and quietly made an- 
swer: 

60 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

*'I think, Madame, that one Is better here/* 

The village of Ste. Anne des Monts 
boasts of several newer and more preten- 
tious homes than our landlord's simple dwel- 
ling, as well as of older and more spacious 
and substantial houses; but genuine comfort 
has kept pace with our sojourn here, and the 
house seems to possess fairly elastic qualities 
when it Is a question of stowing away guests. 

Une maison en pldtre, as it is here desig- 
nated, or a dwelling with plastered walls 
and ceilings, appears to be the height of am- 
bition among property owners in this region. 
But often when winds wailed and storms 
raged we were thankful that risks from fall- 
ing celling were not to be counted among the 
dangers that appeared to threaten our little 
dwelling. 

As a rule the simplest styles of architec- 
ture prevail in this pilgrimage village, but I 
must mention one notable exception and my 
connection with the first stages of its incip- 
lency. 

This will entail a short account of my pop- 
ularity as an amateur photographer. As 
soon as it was ascertained that I possessed 
a picture-taking equipment, my reputation 
6i 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

was made. 

Most politely, insinuatingly and enticingly, 
my photographic services were bespoken by 
one and another denizen of this cameraless 
village; the patronage growing at compound 
Interest rate when it was ascertained that no 
charge accompanied the performance. 

The manner in which this satisfactory bit 
of Information got abroad, Is perhaps wor- 
thy of mention. 

"How much would Madame charge to 
photograph the back of my house?" asked a 
woman whose appearance and dwelling 
ranked her among the least well-to-do of 
the village. 

''A photographic charge, if one were 
made, would no doubt be the same for the 
front as for the back of your dwelling; but 
I do not take money for my services." 

How simple was the secret of my popular- 
ity! 

So by request I photographed homes, fam- 
ilies, groups of friends and single individ- 
uals; I photographed the living, the dying 
and, in one pathetic Instance where no por- 
trait of the loved one had ever been made, I 
photographed the dead. 
62 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

More than once I yielded to a touching 
plea for a picture of some dear one's last 
resting place. 

However, there came a day when it 
seemed to me that nothing on land or sea or 
sky remained unattempted. But I was mis- 
taken. 

Even as I contemplated taking a vacation 
from this altruistic snapping, a fine-looking 
young man approached; a bridegroom elect 
I knew him to be. 

I recognized at once symptoms of photo- 
graphic hopes. 

"If Madame would!" "Yes, what is it? 
A photograph of yourself or one of your 
friends?" 

"Pardon, Madame, it is a photograph of 
my house that I would beg." 

"But your house, I photographed it the 
other day", indicating at the same time his 
place of abode. 

"Yes, Madame was kind enough, but that 
is my father's house, not mine". 

"And yours is . . . ?" 

"Mine is going to be there," he replied, 
designating a portion of his father's land 
where large beams were being laid for a build- 

63 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Ing's foundation. 

"And the house itself?" I continued. 

"Is yet but a plan; a model. If Madame 
will kindly enter, I will show it to her." 

A marvel of skillful workmanship was soon 
placed in my hands — a miniature dwelling 
about nine inches in length and of proportion- 
ate width; decidedly modern in type and 
complete even to the most trifling details of 
decoration. Each delicate touch suggestive of 
the innocent pride and ambition which actu- 
ated the young man as his deft fingers fash- 
ioned the model of the house to which he was 
one day to lead his bride. 

Certainly I would photograph it, but how 
and where ? Held in the hand, it assumed the 
appearance and proportions of a mere toy. 
Placed on the sea shore, it was swallowed up 
in immensity; standing among the field grass- 
es it was hopelessly lost. But there was a way 
out of the difficulty. 

I dismissed the young man and soon a lit- 
tle village maiden and I — she carrying the 
precious model, I armed with the camera — 
were proceeding toward the bush and meadow 
region. There, on a miniature rock at the base 
of tiny evergreen trees (gigantic they became 

64 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

by contrast) , I placed the little house. 

On your next Lower St. Lawrence trip, note 
well the south shore when you reach the point 
where the river widens out into the Gulf. 
Both gulf and ocean steamers pass so near this 
coast, that, with the aid of a glass, the village 
homes are easily distinguishable. Among them 
you will detect the house of which this tiny 
model was the germ thought. Some two years 
ago my young patron led his bride to the com- 
pleted home. 

If your passing Is In the summer, towards 
the close of a pleasant day, you may see El- 
zear, seated on his front "gallerie" smoking 
his pipe; while beside him is his gentle help- 
meet. 

Their little one is folded in her arms, her 
glowing cheek rests on the baby's head, and 
as she rocks, she lulls him to sleep with softly 
sung story of Malbrouck or la claire fontaine 
or of the Holy Child in the creche. 

But it is in vain that you will seek for the 
softening sheltering tree-settings such as fig- 
ure in the little photograph. "The man with 
the axe" as Sir Wilfred Laurier designates the 
Canadian settler, has passed this way, and the 
coast — beautiful as It Is in natural outline — 

65 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

becomes altogether unlovely through the ab- 
sence of trees. 

The preparation for an event which, with 
dwellers in these regions, ranks among the 
most important, the most eagerly anticipated 
and the most devoutly observed of church 
occasions, recently called forth sufficient en- 
ergy to have transformed the entire coast in- 
to a forest bower. Indeed the transforma- 
tion was temporarily effected for, on both 
sides of the road which skirts our shore, 
there suddenly appeared a long row of half 
grown birches and beeches, apparently in full 
vigor. But drooping boughs and curling 
leaves soon testified to the superficiality of 
the miracle ! and the hopeless incline which 
the majority of the trees assumed at the first 
wind-buffetting, bore testimony to the fact 
that the poor things were not accompanied 
by their roots. Many of these mutilated 
''bush" children now lie prostrate by the 
roadside, while others have been tossed into 
the sea and claimed by the tide. Yet, with 
the expenditure of a little additional time 
and labor, permanent results could have 
been secured and living trees might, even 
now, be striking root on either side the road- 
66 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

way. Thus the foundation of an almost 
limitless avenue of shade and shelter would 
have been laid, for the fleeting miracle was 
not performed on the shores of our village 
alone. All around the coast of the peninsu- 
la, from end to end of the rallroadless 
stretch of shore, the transformation scene 
might have been witnessed, and every fourth 
year sees Its reenactment. 

This temporary avenue marks the route 
followed by the Bishop of RimouskI during 
his confirmation tour in these remote por- 
tions of his diocese; and the enthusiasm at- 
tending the event must be witnessed to be 
realized. 

While a body of men in vehicles or on 
horse (and even on bicycles where the roads 
permit) is starting out to conduct the epis- 
copal cohort towards the neighboring church 
or mission station, a like delegation from the 
expectant settlement or village Is already on 
its way to claim the illustrious guest; and all 
along the tree-lined, flag-bedecked avenue 
may be seen the eager faces of those who 
watch for the first signal of the coming of 
Monseigneur. Among the crowds assem- 
bled around the churches, expectation — even 

67 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

if disappointed for hours — remains at fever 
heat; and with the appearance of the first re- 
turning outrider enthusiasm reaches a point 
of rapture. Whether it be the case of a 
waiting host or a single watcher, every coast 
dweller drops on his knees to receive a bene- 
diction as Monseigneur passes on his way. 

As I look around on the simple comforts 
by which we are surrounded In our village 
home, I am reminded of various misgivings 
entertained on our account by the anxious 
friends who so reluctantly saw us depart on 
this northern expedition. 

Over the painted floors of our habitant cot- 
tage, extend strips of bright carpet woven by 
Madame's own deft fingers. Not the rag- 
carpet still so popular In many farmers' 
homes In New England districts — although 
the catalonne as it Is termed by Canadians, has 
its share of patronage here also — but gay. Ori- 
ental-looking coverings, made of shearings 
from our landlord's own sheep. The blank- 
ets, table covers and other useful and orna- 
mental equipments of this little home, as well 
as much of the warm clothing worn by its in- 
mates, are also furnished by the sheep's cast 
off coats and woven by Madame herself. 
68 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Moreover she Is her own dyer, and only in the 
matter of carding does she seek outside help. 
A neighboring mill performs this preliminary 
service for the spinners of Stc. Anne's. 

One can picture the satisfaction with which, 
during long winter evenings, these good house- 
wives watch the bright colors taking their 
places in patterns of the spinners' own design- 
ing; and one can understand that the cheer- 
ful hum of the spinning wheel suffices to ex- 
orcise the depressing influences of the surliest 
and most persistent storm demon. 

"Each nation has its own peculiar virtues 
as well as its own faults," we say to our 
friend the village philosopher, "What, to 
your way of thinking. Is the most important 
falling of your people?" 

"Lack of union," he replies after a mo- 
ment's earnest consideration. 

"And what quality do you most admire 
among the people who dwell around you?" 

"It Is the Gaspesian's practical sklllfulness 
that I most admire In him," he answers. 
"Place any one of our coast people In or near 
the bush, give him an axe, a saw, a hammer 
and some nails, and In a short time he will 
have constructed and furnished a house for 

69 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

himself. All in the most primitive style, it 
is true, but a dwelling nevertheless; a gite 
In which comfort will not be found wanting. 
There is an Independence about this ability 
that appeals strongly to me." 

Evidences of this homely skill are not 
lacking in our own village home, and we 
judge that there is indeed no simple emer- 
gency in the house-constructing or house- 
furnishing line, which even the averagely 
clever Gaspesian would not be able to meet. 

During these bounteous days when both 
le fleuve (as the St. Lawrence is termed in 
contradistinction to its tributaries), and all 
the rivers of the neighborhood are bestow- 
ing on us far greater largesse than we can 
consume, Ste. Anne's provident housewives 
are salting down the surplus salmon, trout, 
cod, herring and other sea and river pro- 
ducts, against the time of the Ice King's 
coming. 

"The winter is our best season," we are 
told, in answer to our anxious inquiries re- 
garding food supplies at that period. "In or- 
der to produce a dish almost the equal of 
any which summer streams can furnish, one 
has but to unsalt this fish and to boil or broil 
70 



ST, ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

it. Served with a little butter or a sauce of 
cream, ah, but it has a fine taste!" 

"And winter's advent finds our provision 
house at its best so far as meats are con- 
cerned; for it is then stocked with whole 
sides of beef, entire sheep and pigs and bar- 
rels of fowls, all frozen solid and certain not 
to spoil. For no thaws of importance visit 
us until spring time, when, as the ladies can 
imagine, the winter's supplies are about ex- 
hausted. 

"The products of our fields also come to 
our aid during the bleakest season," our in- 
formant continues. "For all winter long we 
have potatoes, onions, barley, beans and 
plenty of peas. One knows that the habitant 
can never have too much pea soup, eh? Then 
there is the store of eggs which we begin 
putting aside before the coldest weather sets 
in, and with all these provisions and our 
bread, butter, milk and preserves of rasp- 
berries, blueberries, wild cherries, rowan 
berries and pembina, (an Indian name for 
high bush cranberry) the ladies will see that 
we do not suffer. I only wish every one was 
as well off." 

With a sympathetic thought, not so much of 
71 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

the poorer dwellers on the Gaspe coast as of 
the far more-to-be-pitled needy ones of our 
own land, we heartily echo the good woman's 
wish. 

Quickness of wit and appreciation of humor 
— characteristics belonging to Canadians in 
general — are not lacking among our villagers, 
and in the little coterie which represents the 
upper strata of society at Ste. Anne des Monts, 
are men and women of unusual keenness and 
brightness. In particular the men of this cir- 
cle follow the world's fortunes and keep 
abreast of the times, as its echoes reach them 
through their country's press organs. 

Three times a week the mail is brought to 
our village by courier service from Little 
Metis, and as may be supposed, these tri- 
weekly occasions are important events in coast 
communities; and the advent of the official 
horse and vehicle creates a stir in village cen- 
tres. 

Years ago when convents or municipal 
schools were not regular coast institutions, 
dwellers in these regions had an excuse for 
not knowing how to read or write; though, 
even at that comparatively remote period, 
such a state of ignorance was by no means 
72 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

general. Members of the present generation 
can claim no such excuse however, for schools 
are stationed at convenient intervals all along 
the coast, and an elementary education is now, 
not only within the reach of all, but is virtually 
compulsory. Among shanty (chantier) men 
and others of a like standing, one not infre- 
quently finds a workman whose mark repre- 
sents his signature. 

The religion of the St. Lawrence side of 
the peninsula is Roman Catholic, (this may 
also be stated of much of the gulf region) 
and the language spoken is French ; a French 
much superior in quality to that which one 
hears among people of this same station and 
nationality in the well-populated parts of the 
province of Quebec. 

An occasional reveillon, or evening gather- 
ing of friends, represents the winter's great- 
est social gayety. The most important of 
these reunions takes place on New Year's Eve ; 
when, to the accompaniment of singing, danc- 
ing and feasting, and the playing of games 
and practical jokes, the old year takes its leave 
and the new is ushered in. 

Whether in skirting the Ste. Anne des 
Monts shore, in passing through the village, 
73 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

or In looking seaward even from comparative- 
ly distant points In the surrounding back 
country region, one dwelling In particular Is 
sure to attract the eye of the traveller and to 
awaken In his mind a sentiment of admiration. 
A sentiment with which, In the case of strang- 
ers, much speculative curiosity Is sure to blend. 

This dwelling, situated on a bluff at the 
terminus of one of the most graceful curves 
In the village's shore-line, represents the home 
of a gentleman who has been drawn hither by 
commercial Interests. From the vantage point 
of the elevation where stands his dwelling, the 
view Is so vast and varied as to be fairly Inex- 
haustible; yet the privilege of having this 
magnificent panorama ever before one's eyes 
Is not without Its drawbacks, for this point rep- 
resents the rallying place of all the winds of 
heaven. And though higher heights and more 
desolate stretches may be forest-clad, the Iso- 
lation and peculiar situation and construction 
of this peak are such that trees refuse to strike 
root within Its precincts; though they have 
frequently been Invited to do so. 

Formidable as winter may be In other parts 
of the village. Its greatest rigors are reserved 
for this beautiful cliff-top. 
74 



FESTIVAL DAYS 



LMOST too well known to re- 
quire mention are the facts that 



A St. John the Baptist Is Canada's 
patron, and the 24th of June the 
day set apart for the celebration of his fete. 
Our village put on a gala appearance for the 
important occasion, and, In addition to the 
usual feast-day observances, a procession was 
inaugurated and the settlement became gay 
with flags and banners bearing religious and 
national mottoes and emblems, as well as 
representations of the patron saint; the ma- 
ple leaf and the beaver figuring conspicuous- 
ly everywhere. 

But, to our way of thinking, the most in- 
teresting feature of the pageant was the rep- 
resentation of the infant saint by a village 
child. A staff-like cross in the baby's hand 
and a live lamb beside him completed the 
picture, and both child and lamb seemed to 
enjoy to the utmost the distinction of heading 
the procession and of proceeding In a vehi- 
cle. 

75 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

For several days following the celebra- 
tion the lamb was tethered out in the grass 
near the sexton's house. The creature had 
evidently been a great pet and his loud bleat- 
ing invited the friendly notice of every pass- 
er. One day while we were caressing the 
four-footed processionist, his associate the 
infant saint — somewhat en neglige — ap- 
peared upon the scene. 

The little fellow again carried the cross, 
and as he proceeded carolled in his lisping 
way portions of the cantiques which had 
been sung on the occasion of the procession. 
He seemed to have no fear of us, but at the 
sight of the camera he uttered an exclama- 
tion of alarm. ^^Ca va faire mal, qa va 
faire mal/' he cried, instantly divining my 
purpose. Then, with the evident determina- 
tion of frustrating it, he turned and toddled 
hurriedly homeward, and as long as the re- 
treating figure was visible we heard his in- 
dignant ^^suis fdche, fdche moi.'^ 

The lamb disappeared not many days af- 
ter this occurrence, and for the sake of our 
own peace of mind we forbore asking any 
questions regarding its fate. Perhaps the 
answer would have been identical with one 

76 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

which I received not long since on inquiring 
for a fine looking bull which I missed from 
among the cattle of the upper fields. 

"What has become of him?" I asked my 
companion of the stroll. 

''Of the bull? But you have eaten him, 
Madame!" 

An accusation of cannabalism could have 
been but a single degree more starthng and 
humiliating. 

Eclipsing even the St. Jean Baptiste fete 
in public interest and importance is the cure's 
annual visit, which takes place during the 
earlier half of the month of July. Through 
the back country, along the coast settlements 
from one end of the parish to the other, the 
reverend gentleman, accompanied by three 
of his wardens, visits each family and inter- 
views each member of his congregation. Did 
the little company represent a Board of 
Health Committee on a rigid inspecting tour 
greater diligence could hardly be displayed 
than that which the parishioners manifest in 
their eagerness to prepare worthily for the 
pastoral visit. Such a reign of scrubbing 
and scouring, of sweeping and dusting, of 
i-aKing of house yards and general cleaning 
77 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

and assembling In order, as held sway over 
the entire village during the days that imme- 
diately preceded the important arrival ! In 
some cases preparations extended even to 
the remotest portions of a landed proprie- 
tor's possessions. In our establishment, the 
usual thorough weekly housecleaning be- 
came a daily occurrence; and no gold digger 
ever sought more diligently for the precious 
metal than sought our good landlady, dur> 
ing all this period of expectation, for dust 
particles or other evidences of careless 
housekeeping. 

As long as Monsieur le cure and his attend- 
ants were occupied with the remote portions of 
the parish, there was no slackening in the dili- 
gence of village preparations; but from the 
time that the visiting party reached our settle- 
ment a certain Sabbath quiet fell upon the 
place. The greatest interest centred around 
the dwelling into which the august guest had 
actually entered, and holiday attire was don- 
ned by all in its immediate neighborhood; 
and a furtive but constant watch, kept on the 
progress of the two vehicles which represented 
the clerical cohort. 

"They have arrived at so and so's," some 

78 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

excited sentinel would report. "They may be 
at our doors within an hour or less." And 
with each bulletin of this kind there took 
place a final hasty scrutiny of all objects or 
localities favorable to dust-collecting; and af- 
ter a last frantic wave of the broom or dust- 
cloth, the attitude of quiet, tense waiting 
would be resumed. 

If expectation was disappointed and the 
cure detained so long as to compel an over- 
night postponement of the visit, the follow- 
ing morning witnessed the same eager antici- 
pation and preparation. And thus it continued 
until arrived the thrilling moment when the 
two buckboards drew up before the waiting 
house and the cure and his wardens crossed 
the immaculate threshold. 

A few moments of prayer, a settling of 
church accounts, (we learn that one-tenth of 
the grain revenue represents our farmer's en- 
tire tithe,) some friendly inquiries concerning 
the welfare of each member of the family, a 
little chat regarding the most important of 
village Interests and the latest neighborhood 
happenings, a few pleaisanteries In houses 
where the absence of recent sorrow permits, 
and then, with a blessing on home and in- 

79 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

mates, the cure takes his departure; the 
housewife breathes freely once more, and the 
entire household resumes its every day attire 
and avocations, while the two august buck- 
boards make their way to the next expectant 
home. 

This is the regular program in all the 
houses except those appointed as lunching or 
dining stations for the cure and his wardens. 
It is hardly necessary to state that even great- 
er stir and excitement prevail in settlements to 
whose portion this honor falls. It does not 
surprise us to learn that the champion cook of 
the village is frequently borrowed for these 
occasions by sister housewives diffident regard- 
ing their own culinary merits and capabilities, 
yet more than eager to entertain their august 
guest worthily. It is said that, as one after 
another of the good woman's famous dishes 
appear before the astute quartette, her influ- 
ence is invariably recognized; and many a 
congratulatory remark directed towards the 
behind-the-scenes region where she so mod- 
estly and so worthily officiates. 

One can imagine with what satisfaction the 
cure and his attendants turn homeward from 
the last of these annual parish calls. The tour 
80 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of the village and its vicinage is a compara- 
tively light task; but immense fatigue attends 
the journeys to the back country and the gulf- 
ward regions generally designated by the 
vague term of down below. 

To return one moment to the prosaic mat- 
ter of scrubbing. Never before attending a 
Ste. Anne des Monts cleaning seance, had we 
imagined that this extremely practical occupa- 
tion could be accompanied by a suggestion of 
genuine poetry. Our enlightenment came about 
in the following manner. 

Early on Saturday morning, when business 
called us to make a halt at a habitant house, 
the whole dwelling seemed all at once to over- 
flow with the concentrated essence of balsam 
fir and other delightful evergreen fragrances. 
On asking the reason of this sudden Christ- 
mas tree atmosphere, we were led to the kitch- 
en where, kneeling on the shores of a sudsy 
sea which threatened to deluge the entire floor, 
were three sturdy creatures, as girls and wom- 
en of habitant communities are always termed. 
A vigorous floor scrubbing was under way, but 
instead of the usual conventional and uninter- 
esting brush plying, our trio — with a certain 
rythmic movement, and to the accompani- 
8i 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ment of a favorite song — deftly manipulated 
evergreen branches. With the first symptoms 
of limpness the moist branches were discarded 
and replaced by fresh, crisp specimens. 

No wonder that the fragrance of the 
woods pervaded the entire house. 

"My mother always cleaned in this way," 
said the conductor of the scrubbing 
manoeuvres, as she proceeded by means of 
a large drying cloth to put the finishing 
touches to the floor, "and I have always 
followed her example. It seems to me that 
nothing ever makes a plancher so sweet and 
clean, as scrubbing It with evergreen 
branches." 

A moment or so ago I spoke of Sabbath 
quiet, and the mention brings to my mind a 
recent experience which has exemplified for 
me stillness as I never before knew it. Noth- 
ing beyond a few moments of utter quiet, 
but such quiet as Is rarely known during the 
day-lit hours of Inhabited regions. 

All through the night which preceded this 
still Sunday, the storm had raged with such 
violence as to drive slumber from the 
couches of all but those Inured to the vagar- 
ies of coast tempests; but with the morning 
82 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

came peace, perfect security on sea and land. 
Yet so long as even the subdued murmurs of 
voices broke upon the ear the silence was 
marred. It was only at the hour of mass, 
when the houses were deserted and the 
church held in its wide embrace not only our 
villagers, but their neighbors from far and 
near, that the stillness reached its culmina- 
tion. 

At this wonderful moment I stood upon 
the shore where the balsam fir fragrance 
blended with the breath of the placid sea. I 
was absolutely alone, not a living creature 
within sight. No sound, either near or re- 
mote, reached me. The solemnity of the 
hush that had fallen upon the world called 
for such reverence as one betows on sacred 
things, and until a peal from the organ woke 
the echoes, the stillness continued unbroken. 

When the people came flocking out from 
church, I left my lonely post and directed 
my steps homeward. For I was loath to 
dispel, even by friendly converse, the influ- 
ence of that strange, still moment; and when- 
ever its memory presents itself to me, I 
realize that, once in my life at least, I have 
listened to silence. 

B3 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

The cure's visit was hardly over when 
preparations were entered upon for the 
feast of Ste. Anne; La bonne Sainte Anne, 
as she is invariably designated and invoked 
by her Canadian votaries. 

The foundation of this cult was laid near- 
ly three hundred years ago, when, a terrible 
storm threatening destruction to some Bre- 
ton sailors who were navigating the St. Law- 
rence, and who in their dire peril invoked 
the patroness of mariners, a vow was regis- 
tered by the storm-tossed travellers to erect 
a chapel on whatever spot the saint would 
enable them to land. This is the well-known 
origin of the far-famed shrine of Ste. Anne 
de Beaupre situated on the north shore of 
the St. Lawrence at a distance of twenty 
miles from the City of Quebec. 

No fewer than forty towns in the prov- 
ince of Quebec now bear the name of the 
mother of the Virgin. Ste. Anne des Monts, 
on the south side of the St. Lawrence and 
distant from the City of Quebec some three 
hundred miles, represents Gaspe's most im- 
portant shrine; and always as the twenty- 
sixth of July — the feast of the patroness — 
approaches, all French Canadian Gaspe- 

84 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

sians direct their thoughts and their prayers 
towards this hill-crowned coast village. 

When I began the writing of this Httle 
chronicle we stood, as I said, on the thres- 
hold of the feast of la bonne Ste. Anne and 
summer was at its height. But the Octave 
came to a close more than a fortnight since, 
and now ripening grain fields wave in unison 
with the billows of the sea, and more than 
one evidence have we that the beautiful, 
bright season is already on the wane. 

For eight days — reckoning from the eve 
of the feast — whether skies smiled or wheth- 
er they frowned, the pilgrim multitude daily 
wended its way to the shrine of Ste. Anne 
des Monts. Those arriving by boat, as well 
as a small proportion of the great concourse 
which thronged from landward directions, 
spent the Octave with friends in the village; 
but the majority came and went daily, even 
when their homes were at no inconsiderable 
distance. 

Not infrequently there was to be seen the 
old world spectacle of pilgrims — both men 
and women — in penitential garb, bare-head- 
ed, barefooted, silent, except as their lips 
moved in prayer while the beads of the chap- 

8s 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

let slipped through their fingers; looking 
neither to the right nor to the left, saluting 
no man by the way, having proceeded thus 
in fulfillment of a vow for perhaps a score 
or more of weary miles. It might have been 
in grateful recognition of a benefit received 
or in the hope of securing some ardently de- 
sired object that the vow was undertaken. 
Even tonsured heads are sometimes seen 
among the pedestrian pilgrims; the clergy of 
other parishes occasionally proceeding thus 
under a vow to the shrine of la bonne Ste. 
Anne. 

The towers of the village church stand out 
in bold relief against a background of sky and 
hills, and the shrine constitutes the most im- 
portant feature of the coast for miles and 
miles around. It is said that mariners far out 
at sea watch by day for the first glimpse of 
these towers with all the eagerness which, at 
nightfall, marks their search for the beacon 
lights stationed here and there along the rocky 
coast. 

To us, even the bell of the Ste. Anne^s 
church has a marine character, and its tones 
seem ever to chime with the varying moods 
of the sea. 

86 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Two small dwellings and a convent— which 
in this region of simple architecture assume 
stately and imposing proportions— stand be- 
tween our cottage and the church, but do not 
materially interfere with our view of the sa- 
cred edifice, nor cut us off from the sight of 
whatever may transpire in its neighborhood. 
Thus from our windows it is easy to keep a 
watch on parishioners as they assemble on 
Sundays and holidays, so that even adverse 
weather did not deprive us of the view of the 
pilgrim concourse. The days of the Octave 
were nearly all marked by unimpeachable 
weather, however, and our observations were 
taken mainly from a hill top looking both sea- 
ward and churchward. But while enjoying to 
the full the perfect atmospheric conditions and 
all other harmonious influences of the occa- 
sion, we could not banish thoughts of the 
terrible time when bleak winter would replace 
smiling summer, and Sunday and holyday re- 
unions would be held under Arctic auspices. 
For even at that merciless period, unless un- 
bearable cold or the wildest storms make the 
journey an impossibility, the call of the church 
bell is answered by the appearance of repre- 
sentatives from the most remote as well as the 
87 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

nearest points of the parish ; and even in win- 
ter during service hours a goodly array of 
horses and sleighs await their owners in the 
open space around the church. It is true that 
the steeds are always well blanketed during 
the frigid waiting periods, yet the majority of 
the poor creatures frequently stand knee deep 
in snow, not even the roughest shelter having 
been provided for such emergencies. 

A trio of Carmelite fathers assisted the Ste. 
Anne des Monts cure in conducting the ser- 
vices of the Octave, and the sombre garments, 
rigid demeanor, fearless denunciations and 
rugged eloquence of these strangers suggested 
the presence of so many wilderness prophets. 

Numerous were the friendly gatherings and 
conferences that took place between services; 
many of the visitors not having met since the 
last Octave or perhaps for much longer pe- 
riods. The social element was kept entirely in 
abeyance, however, and the occasion recog- 
nized as a distinctly spiritual one. But solem- 
nity and impressiveness reached their height 
when, in the twilight of the last day of the 
Octave, the pilgrims assembled in the cemetery 
for the hour of remembrance of the dead. 

The deep shadows fell as from our outlook 
88 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

point we watched the strange throng; but 
even when the dusky forms were barely dis- 
tinguishable, we could still follow the course 
of the procession as it wended its way in and 
out among the graves, for each pilgrim carried 
a lighted candle, and a long line of tiny 
twinkling stars marked the mourners' route. 

Now their solemn dirges rang out upon the 
still night air, or again, as they halted and 
knelt, came the wail of the De profundis or the 
monotonous refrain of the chaplet or litany. 

And looking away over beyond the church 
and the cemetery we could catch the glint of 
quiet waters that told of a sea at rest, while an 
occasional flash from a passing ship answered 
the will o' the wisp gleams of the lights 
among the graves. 

We left the hill and met the procession as it 
filed out from the cemetery, and our own 
hearts swelled as the sobs of mourners smote 
the air and the glimmer of candles fell on 
tear-stained faces. 

The next day when the Octave's last ser- 
vice had closed, we followed for a short dis- 
tance a body of pilgrims bound for points 
above Ste. Anne des Monts. During a halt 
at the ferry, chance brought our way vari- 

89 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ous interesting scraps of the pilgrims' con- 
versations. One woman, who was evidently 
feeling something of the reaction which must 
ever follow times of great spiritual and oth- 
er tension, held forth as follows: 

**A11 honor to la bonne Ste. Anne. I owe 
her much gratitude, and no one more happy 
than I to have assisted at her feast and at- 
tended the Octave services; but c'est assez 
comme qa. Pour une escousse it is well, but 
an Octave every day, non, nan, qa n^ trait pas/" 



90 



VI 
ALONG SHORE 

AT high tide the waters of the St. 
Lawrence make their way to with- 
in a generous stone's throw of our 
dwelling; but even in their fiercest 
moods the waves have never been known to 
encroach on the road which passes between 
us and the shore. 

Before us stretches an expanse of waters 
which we term the sea ; and boundless as the 
sea it appears, except on days when certain 
atmospheric conditions combine to intensify 
the clearness of the air, and present to the 
eye the effect of minimized distances. With 
this occasional lifting of the far-off veil we 
catch glimpses of a shadowy, irregular blu- 
ish tracery, which represents the opposite 
points of the St. Lawrence's north shore; 
Pointe des Monts, Seven Islands and other 
wild, bleak regions, their rugged outlines so 
softened by remoteness as to suggest vague, 
tender, low-lying clouds, or a continuation 
of the waters with a slight variation in their 
hue. For at the point where the village of 
91 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Ste. Anne des Monts is situated, the St. 
Lawrence attains the noble width of fifty- 
four miles. 

Beyond our shores and beyond the north- 
ern tracery of which I speak, the land re- 
cedes until it disappears from our view, and 
the river widens out into the Gulf of St. 
Lawrence. On their way to the ocean the 
waters outline on one side the Gaspe penin- 
sula, while the opposite coast stretches out 
toward the sad, wild region that leads to 
Labrador. 

Twelve feet represent the tide's greatest 
rise in the vicinity of our village. As the 
waters ebb, there comes to view beyond the 
shingly beach a long, rocky region, with here 
and there pits deep and perilous when hid- 
den by the waves, though harmless In full 
daylight when the tide is out. Again one 
sees huge boulders on which the children 
love to perch at low tide, and over which 
small boats may pass In safety when the wat- 
ers are at their height. 

There are also regions favorable to clam 

habitation, and soft, oozy stretches where 

one sinks knee deep in seaweed tangles. But 

in our neighborhood, the largest portion of 

92 



1 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

the surface laid bare by receding waters con- 
sists of layers and layers of serrated rocks 
suggesting an endless number of upward- 
turned graduated saws. Sea urchins, curi- 
ous shells and various specimens of seaweed 
represent the treasures after which the chil- 
dren seek; while mussels and various other 
fishy deposits allure multitudes of crows to 
the beach. Also our shore is seldom without 
Its representatives from among the gull, fish- 
hawk and kingfisher tribes, but the voice of 
the ^'gentille alouette'^ — (the snipe) reaches 
us most frequently In the still hours of twi- 
light. 

We have but to look from our windows 
or step to our front door to keep in touch 
with all that passes for miles and miles out 
at sea, as well as that which transpires in 
either the neighboring or the comparatively 
remote 'longshore regions. 

One day as we sat on the "gallery" or 
front platform of our dwelling, our attention 
was attracted by a great flapping and flounder- 
ing among the pools left by the outgoing tide 
in the near rock-shallows. The agitators of 
the waters proved to be a dozen or more of 
stranded white porpoises, and their desperate 

93 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

manoeuvres continued until the Incoming tide 
effected their release. 

On another occasion — this also from the 
vantage point of our gallery — we detected the 
spouting of a company of whales, and while all 
such occurrences as the two just cited seem 
matter of fact enough in the estimation of our 
villagers, to us inland people these evidences 
of the proximity of monsters of the deep bring 
with them a sensation of strangeness and al- 
most of awe. 

Every morning, when propitious weather 
permits — and the stormy days have been com- 
paratively few during our sojourn at Ste. 
Anne's — we hasten to the shore to see what 
new treasure the tide has deposited on our 
beach. 

I remember the joy with which we once 
came upon a strange assemblage of large, 
heavy logs tossed together in such a manner 
as to form what suggested a succession of 
huge arm chairs; a structure so comfortable 
and hospitable that we unanimously deter- 
mined to adopt it as a regular resting place 
and observation post. 

But I remember also the dismay with which, 
on the morning after the treasure had been 
94 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

discovered, we saw it riding seaward on the 
top of the outgoing waves. A broken boat 
which held forth the same fair but delusive 
promises of serving as a refuge and resting 
place shared the same fate. The tide Is what 
the children term an Indian giver, and we 
have learned to seize without delay and carry 
away any of its portable offerings which take 
our fancy; well knowing that the next rise 
and fall may claim every detached object on 
the beach. 

An incident reported as happening recently 
In a neighboring parish set our entire village 
agog for a few days and Induced a score or so 
of idle people (ourselves among the number,) 
to pursue low-tide researches with renewed 
zeal and quickened expectations. 

It is stated that a fisherman discovered 
among some shore debris a water-logged pock- 
et-book containing bank notes of various de- 
nominations, amounting in all to seventy-five 
dollars. The finder immediately betook him- 
self to the preshytere, and laying the pocket- 
book and Its history before his cure, retired 
and awaited developments. 

On the following Sunday at High Mass 
the cure made the matter known from the 
95 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

pulpit, and each parishioner was enjoined to 
aid in spreading the news and tracing the 
owner. But no one coming to lay claim to 
the pocket-book, it was returned to the fortu- 
nate finder. 

The simple honesty of this entire transac- 
tion impressed us deeply. From the time of 
our coming among these people we have no- 
ticed the general disregard of locks and bolts 
which implies a complete immunity from 
thievish depredations and a well-founded 
trust in their fellow-beings. We learn that 
two or three burglarious attacks have been 
made on the stores of this neighborhood, but 
no dwelling of this section has ever been ap- 
proached by thieves. Our front door is 
barred at night "lest the wind should blow 
it open;" but although the more sheltered en- 
trance at the back of the house is furnished 
with a lock and key, no fastening other than 
a latch secures that door, even during the 
unguarded hour when the village sleeps. 

A roomy, comfortable looking building 
occupying a central position in the village 
represents the prison, but we can learn of only 
three or four depredators ever having been 
committed to its keeping. The causes of in- 
96 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

carceration were salmon-poaching, the shoot- 
ing of moose out of season and the selling of 
spirituous liquors. No saloons are allowed 
along the coast and when liquor is bought 
and sold the transaction is effected in an un- 
derhand way and in defiance of local law. 

Certain it is that, whatever may be the 
faults of the inhabitants of this region, deeds 
of violence are not perpetrated among them, 
and the most defenseless human being — 
whether man, woman or child — may make 
his way to the heart of the loneliest bush re- 
gions or proceed from one end of the coast 
to the other without fear of molestation 
from human kind. 

This unique situation, once understood, it 
will be easy to imagine the consternation and 
dismay of the children of our village as well 
as of some of the more credulous among 
their elders, when the announcement reached 
them, as it did recently, that fifteen robbers 
were proceeding along the coast with the 
avowed intention of plundering all the dwel- 
lings on their route. 

In our neighborhood the bomb was thrown 
by a white-faced, trembling little girl, who 
with many a backward and sidelong glance 

97 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of terror, stole out to her unsuspecting play- 
mates and communicated to them the dire 
piece of intelligence. 

'* Grand! mere is very ill." The child spoke 
in whispers as if fearful lest a louder confi- 
dence should reach the ears of some lurking 
depredator. "The doctor says she cannot 
live many days, so our father and mother 
have gone to Chemin Neuf to bid her good 
bye; and there are at home only us five chil- 
dren. Never in our lives, until last evening, 
have we thought of being afraid; but at that 
time a man from down below who was pass- 
ing our house bade us lock our doors and re- 
main inside because of the robbers who are 
approaching. O malheur, is it not terrible ! 
We were awake all night, — at least we can- 
not remember that we slept — and until now 
no one of us has dared to venture out. I 
came to warn you of the peril, and I must 
hasten back that we may again bar the doors. 
Bonne Sainte Anne, to think that we are in 
danger of being robbed and murdered, and 
son pere and sa mere so far away ! Good bye, 
good bye. Take heed to yourselves, I pray 
you." 

Even In the home of the philosopher, the 

98 



ST. ANNIE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

panic made itself felt. 

''Think of it, son pere'' exclaimed the agi- 
tated youngest child. "Fifteen awful rob- 
bers in three wagons are on their way to us! 
They are even now at Cape Chatte and will 
be here shortly. Everyone is doing his best 
to protect his house, and the cattle are being 
driven to the stables. Shall we not take our 
precautions like the others?" 

"There is no need of all this dread," an- 
swered the farmer calmly. "Think you that 
the coast authorities would permit a body of 
robbers to proceed thus undisturbed on a 
tour of bloodshed and plunder? The ap- 
proaching company is composed of Gypsies 
— Bohemiens, we term them. They are a 
strange people regarding whom we know lit- 
tle save that they sprang from a most an- 
cient race — (which race they themselves can- 
not rightly say) and that something in their 
blood drives them ever onward. They care 
not for settled homes such as ours, but they 
are continually wandering over the face of 
the earth, getting gain by telling fortunes, 
selling charms and mysterious medicines and 
trafficking in horses with those foolish 
enough to be induced to exchange honest 
99 



ST. ANNE OP THE MOUNTAINS 

steeds for stolen ones, or sound beasts for 
broken-down animals. There are no doubt 
good and bad among these people as among 
all others, but les Bohemiens are never 
looked upon as desirable visitors. More 
than once they have been known to rob hen 
roosts or to carry off sheep and pigs and 
even cows and horses; and alas there are 
well-founded stories of little children having 
been beguiled from their houses and carried 
off by les Bohemiens, perhaps never to be 
heard of again. Such terrible instances, how- 
ever, are most rare, but while the band is in 
cur neighborhood it will be well for us to 
keep a watch on the fields and an eye to the 
house. But we need not distress ourselves 
with the fear that our homes will be invaded, 
nor their inmates attacked. These wander- 
ers are too timid and probably not malicious 
enough for such bold practices. There is 
even no danger for the five children whose 
parents are absent; though the little ones 
must no longer be left to themselves and 
their terrors." 

But though the philosopher's hopeful 
words were circulated freely in that por- 
tion of the village where panic reigned, they 

lOO 



1 



J 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

carried only partial reassurance. One wo- 
man confided to us her anxiety regarding 
*^une cochonne et ses dix petits'' which had 
wandered off into the intricacies of the bush, 
and another housekeeper was in distress 
about a truant company of geese. We met 
a young girl searching for a cosset lamb and 
a second maiden was greatly disturbed con- 
cerning the whereabouts of a pet hen and 
her entire downy brood. In our own estab- 
lishment, the youngest child's nightmares 
(which had for their motif the slaughter of 
his father and mother, the loss of his own 
scalp, and the abduction of the faithful old 
family horse), set in vigorously long before 
we had retired to our sleeping apartments. 

The fears of one of our little friends were 
all for the safety of our tiny Chihuahua dog. 

"Guard FIfine well, I pray you mes- 
dames," the child said earnestly. "What 
would become of the tender, loving little 
beast, were she to fall into the hands of 
those dreadful men!" 

Perhaps, at this stage of the panic no lit- 
tle ones felt safer than did the five children 
whose parents were with the dying grand- 
mother at Chemin Neuf. The entire little 

lOI 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

f routes/ Do but look at that smallest infant. 
He has not on a stitch of clothing, le petit mal- 
heureux. That vielle sorciere might at least 
spare him the dirty red rag with which she has 
tied up her wicked old gray head." 

"Who knows? Those little ones may have 
been stolen from their homes," was the sugges- 
tion of another. 

"Craignez-pas/^ responded a knowing-look- 
ing old dame. "The little blacks resemble too 
much the big blacks for any one to be mis- 
taken about their parentage. They are gypsy 
gamins, every one of them." 

While these and many other equally un- 
complimentary comments were under way, the 
strolling band was slowly wending its course 
toward a point beyond the lower village. The 
three heavy wagons were drawn by twice as 
many halting, emaciated horses. The occu- 
pants of the vehicles were, one old woman, 
two of middle age, two younger women, four 
men and six children — fifteen all told. The 
entire party was unprepossessing and sinister 
in appearance — no shadow of loveliness at- 
taching itself even to the children — but it was 
towards the aged woman that the largest share 
of our villagers' dislike and indignation was 
104 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

directed. 

^^Parlez-moi pas de dte vielle-la'^ ejaculat- 
ed one of our near neighbors, herself a wo- 
man well advanced in years. "The old witch 
is no doubt the wickedest of them all. She 
has the air of being capable of any iniquity." 

But an incident which occurred just at this 
juncture led us to look for a general modifica- 
tion, if not a complete reversal, of the highly 
inimical judgment. 

As the band passed the church, the aged 
gypsy and two of the men rose, bowed deeply 
and crossed themselves with a show of great 
devotion ; while all the other members of the 
company, either independently or — as in the 
case of infants — by proxy made some dem- 
onstration of reverence. 

But lo, the Implied allegiance to their 
shrine served only to Intensify the Indignation 
of the villagers, and comment became louder 
and more unfavorable than ever. 

On the morning of the following day while 
we were taking a longshore stroll, there 
rushed out to us from her home, the child 
whose sympathies are so heartily enlisted in 
favor of our little dog. 

"Maman begs that the ladles will enter," 
105 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

she exclaimed. "The old Bohemienne is 
here." 

Followed by our inseparable, the little 
Chihuahua, we immediately proceeded toward 
the kitchen. There — seated near a table on 
which the housewife had placed a simple re- 
past — the aged gypsy was holding forth in 
mongrel French regarding the potency of her 
charms and remedies, and the advisability of 
providing one's self with a generous share of 
her magic wares. 

''All, all, all diseases, no matter what, of 
man or beast, I heal, I heal," droned the mo- 
notonous voice. 

"Let her care for her own wretched horses 
then," came in a loud whisper from one of 
the party. But the crone took no heed of the 
Interruption. 

"Yes, I can cure all," she continued. "The 
mal ail ouelle (presumably mal aux yeux), 
the 7?ial ail bouche, the mal au I'oreille, the 
mal au dain (mal aux dents), en fin the mal 
au touteP* 

The last expression appeals so forcibly to 
the humorous sense of our fun-loving villag- 
ers that It has been regularly adopted by them, 
and many now delight to feign themselves In 
io6 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

advanced stages of that fell disease, the mal 
au toute. 

But the monotonous voice of the old wom- 
an became suddenly animated as she caught 
sight of our little dog. 

''Ah, Ah, Chigaga, Chigaga,'' she ex- 
claimed eagerly. "Many, many have I seen 
in MexiqueJ' 

''En MexiqueF^ whispered another member 
of the family. "She has been even there. Said 
not our neighbor rightly that les Bohemiens 
wander over the face of the whole earth?" 

"Yes, many, many have I seen, and one, 
two, three, four have I owned." 

"Depend upon it, Mesdames, she stole 
them, the poor little beasts. Ah, it was not 
for nothing that I warned the ladies to 
guard well the tiny Fifine!" This an aside 
from our cautious and sympathetic little 
friend. 

"And worth much money, oh, much, much 
money," continued the gypsy; "but they die, 
always die; not one could I keep." 

"Where was then the famous medicine that 
cures all ailments whether of man or beast?" 
queried, in a discreet undertone, still anoth- 
er incredulous one. 

107 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

In vain did the gypsy offer, for a small 
compensation, to reveal the future and to 
provide charms against evil chances of every 
nature. In vain did she attempt to allure by 
juggler-like displays and sleight of hand ex- 
hibitions which, to these simple-minded peo- 
ple, must have appeared like the veriest 
witch-craft. In our village at least she and 
her band reaped no harvest; though in a 
small hamlet among the back hills a sick 
man was inveigled into exchanging his own 
good horse for a worn out beast, and in- 
duced to hand over to the gypsies a little 
hoard of savings amounting to five dollars; 
and all for the sake of an amulet which was 
to bring him soundness of body at the expir- 
ation of a fortnight. But the ailment in- 
creased instead of diminishing as the days 
passed, and at the close of the fortnight, 
when the gypsies were well on their gulf- 
ward way, the victim, broken in spirit and 
wretched in body, was vainly deploring his 
folly. 

''0« te Vavait Ven dit, heinf^ was the tri- 
umphant salutation of one and another of his 
village comforters. "Hereafter thou wilt 
reserve thy confidence for the good Sainte 
io8 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Anne. Is it not so?" 

But linked with this coast are the tragic, 
as well as the pleasing and merely curious 
traditions of other sea-washed stretches A 
short while since a young villager who had 
put out from our shores for a day's fishmg 
came hurrying back with terror-mspired 
speed, and, in agitated accents, told of a 
dead body which had floated so near his boat 
as to have come within easy reach of his 
grasp; a golden-haired gir^. clad in garments 
which still retained much of the brightness 
of their hue, in spite of all they had endured 
from the waves' rude buffetings. 

"And did'st thou not seek to seize the 
poor creature and to bring her ashore that 
her friends might learn of her fate and that 
she might receive Christian burial?" asked 
a sympathetic villager. 

"What! / lay a hand on the unfortunate 
one?" ejaculated the lad shudderingly. ^'God 
forbid! And even though she floated face 
downward I could scarce bear to look upon 
her, much less to touch her. No, no ! I hast- 
ened shoreward, and when I again glanced 
toward the body it was far out on its way to 

the sea." 

lOQ 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Pursuit failed to overtake the poor girl, 
and all inquiries regarding her brought forth 
no enlightenment; so the mystery of the 
golden-haired one remains in the keeping of 
the deep, or of its desolate border stretches. 

In the cemetery at Ste. Anne des Monts, 
within an enclosure that separates its inmates 
from the other sleepers of the churchyard, is 
a small wooden monument, on which are in- 
scribed four stranger-names. This simple rec- 
ord represents another of our shore's trag- 
edies, but one around which no haunting mys- 
tery lingers. 

A Scotchman and his family, newly arrived 
from the mother-country, were proceeding in 
a schooner from some point above Ste. Anne's, 
intending perhaps to push on as far as the 
shores of the alluringly named New Scotia. 
But when they reached the neighborhood of 
our village a squall overtook the vessel, and 
it was cast upon the rocks. In the effort to 
transfer the unfortunate travellers from the 
boat to the land, several lives were lost; and 
of the little Scottish group no one remained 
save the desolate head of the house, who had 
become separated from his family at the time 
of the transfer. 

no 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

The wife's body was carried out to sea and 
never recovered, but the four children were 
cast upon our shore and their bodies given a 
resting place In the cemetery at Ste. Anne des 
Monts. And thus It comes to pass that four 
adherents of the Scottish kirk, sleep In the 
shadow of this Canadian coast shrine. 

To these pathetic Instances might be added 
scores of others of a like nature, for the list of 
coast accidents Is a long one. Even last week 
In the late moonlight and early dawn of one 
of the stillest of nights, there might have been 
seen wending Its way from a point far down 
the coast towards an open grave In our ceme- 
tery, a weird little cohort bearing the body of 
a drowned man. 

But strange to say, none of these solemn ex- 
amples move our people to adopt the first 
steps towards averting such disasters. Among 
our own villagers, from the child to the vet- 
eran, we have not found a single Individual 
who Is able to swim. The marvel Is that the 
Peggotty annals are not more frequently re- 
peated here, and that the entry "drowned 
dead" does not figure still more conspicuously 
among the Items which go to make up the 
sum of mortality's sad record. 
Ill 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

It is not only in the matter of the sea's 
tragedies that one's thoughts travel from 
these Gaspe villagers to the dear, homely fish- 
er-folk with whom Dickens has peopled the 
stranded boat on the shore of the Yarmouth 
village. 

Sometimes one sees a blue-eyed, golden- 
haired little Em'ly, her hand placed trustingly 
in the secure grasp of a Master Davy, while 
they clamber barefooted over the rocks or 
race along the sandy stretches which the out- 
going waves have left smooth and fair. Or 
again, as the waters come curling softly back 
the little ones wait at the edge of the foamy 
curves, and shout with glee while the waves 
caress their naked feet. Wilder waves are 
courted more discreetly, but no child dreams 
of approaching the beach when the majestic 
breakers come roaring and surging shore- 
ward. 

But the wind-tossed locks of these little sea- 
side dwellers are auburn or raven as a rule, 
and the eyes in which the sea is here reflected 
are generally dark in hue. For though the 
fairer type of beauty is that held in highest 
esteem among these people, and to be the par- 
ent of un petit hlanc or une petite blanche is 

112 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

considered an enviable distinction, yet the av- 
erage coast-dweller of this region Is not light 
in coloring. 

From the time of our arrival we have been 
Impressed with the general comeliness of the 
faces that we see around us. Among them are 
countenances of a type so fine and dignified as 
to furnish unmistakable evidences of an ex- 
traction of no ordinary character. And In- 
deed, on making Inquiry, we learn that the 
earliest settlers of this region were refugees 
from Evangeline's land. Members of that 
happy little band of Acadlans, who before the 
terrible time of their dispersion dwelt In that 
fruitful, peaceful valley on the shores of the 
Basin of MInas. 

In that dread hour when "leaving behind 
them the dead on the shore and the village 
in ruins,'* the poor Acadlans fled, some there 
were who found their way to the very shores 
which we now tread, and surely It Is not un- 
natural to attribute to this noble ancestry, 
much of the dignity of bearing and fineness 
of countenance that we note among our vil- 
lagers. 

The most realistic of all the Peggotty vi- 
sions came to us one wild night when a rest- 

113 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

less mood led us out Into the storm. Though 
sleep brooded over the majority of the dwel- 
lings, lights still twinkled here and there, and 
an affectionate Interest led us to halt before 
the half-curtained windows of one of the 
cheeriest houses in the village. Radiance 
poured forth from more than one point, but 
the brightness seemed to concentrate itself 
In the kitchen; where, beside a glowing fire, 
sat a sturdy longshoreman whose duties 
would presently summon him to battle with 
the storm. The wife was busy transferring 
steaming dishes from the stove to the table, 
and at her husband's knee was stationed 
their little daughter. With all the might of 
both chubby hands the child struggled with 
a huge souwester, in whose depths she oc- 
casionally buried her own curly locks, while 
at other times she attempted to adjust the 
unwieldly gear to her father's head. The 
whole performance was accompanied by 
bursts of childish laughter In which a man's 
deep tones occasionally blended, while the 
mother smiled In sympathy as she went 
about her work. In a corner of this same 
room was a cradle where, half smothered 
In warm wraps, lay the Infant son of the 
114 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

house; but neither the merriment within nor 
the wildness without disturbed the slumbers 
of this sturdy young coastman. 

"Ham Peggotty and little Em'ly happily 
married," we whispered to each other as 
we stole away from the pleasant scene. 

The drift wood of this region — though 
interesting in quality and generally fanciful, 
sometimes even fantastic in form — has not 
the charm of the derelict fragments which 
one gathers along the ocean's shore. For 
although, as I have already shown, portions 
of old boats may be cast upon our beach and 
bits of wrecked ships may find their way 
hither, these are rare happenings, and the 
mass of the accumulation consists chiefly of 
gnarled tree-roots and twisted branches; of 
refuse from saw mills; of great logs which 
have broken loose at the time of spring 
drives, or of planks, deals, ties and other 
truant products of lumber yards. Hence 
this driftwood does not possess the quali- 
ties which result from the presence or influ- 
ence of copper and iron bindings and fast- 
enings. 

In watching the escape of the imprisoned 
rainbows, the play of the green and red and 
US 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

blue and pink and purplish flames which 
dance among the fires built of fragments 
gathered on the ocean's shore, one thinks. 

"Of wrecks upon the main, 
Of ships dismasted that were hailed 
And send no answer back again." 

But sitting before the drift wood fires of 
our coast, one's thoughts dwell either on 
events connected with the lumberman's life 
in remote wintry forests, or on the season 
when the loosening of the Ice King's hold 
liberates the pent up tributary rivers whose 
swollen waters wrench from their riverside 
tenure great trees and tender saplings, and 
sweep away not only this harvest of forcibly 
acquired booty, but also all the tollfully won 
logs deliberately committed by the lumber- 
man to the water's charge. 

Now in the pictures formed by the danc- 
ing flames, we see — darting hither and thither 
— intrepid figures armed with long spiked 
poles. Here they leap fearlessly from one 
whirling log to another; there they contend 
with an obstinate "jam;" yonder they haul 
logs from their hiding places among the 
bushy tangles and eddies of the riverside; 
guiding, propelling, restraining everywhere; 
ii6 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

sometimes even slipping into the icy waters 
in their heroic attempts to direct their re- 
fractory charges toward the path that leads 
to the regions of protecting booms and 
cages. 

In the main our villagers are what may be 
termed a quiet folk. During the day their 
attention is generally claimed by their vari- 
ous avocations, but in the long evenings of the 
short summer, when the sunset glow lingers 
till nearly ten of the clock, the people are gen- 
erally at leisure and seem loath to relinquish 
the fleeting out-door opportunities afforded by 
the season of warmth and light. The elders 
loiter around their doors or on their galleries, 
or linger in neighborly chat at friends' houses, 
while the young people cluster around popu- 
lar trysting places and the children play in the 
streets or wander along the beach. 

Now and then one hears the strains of an 
accordion and perhaps a few voices join in 
the complainte or cantique which forms the 
musician's theme. Again the children's feet 
will respond gaily to the lively sawing of the 
violin bow, and more than one impromptu 
dance have we witnessed at the twilight hour. 

But in the bush region at a little distance 

117 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

back of the village, there fall upon the ear at 
this restful season no sounds save such as tell 
of birds bidding farewell to the day and wel- 
come to the night; or of swaying trees or 
rustling leaves; of little streams singing their 
way shoreward or of quiet cattle grazing in 
nearby meadows. Here one realizes to the 
utmost the beauties of a "summer night which 
is not night." And in the quiet influence of 
this "long mild twilight, which like a silver 
clasp unites to-day with yesterday," one ex- 
periences a sensation akin to that with which 
one enters a sanctuary. 

Along these shores may at any time be 
heard a sound in presence of which all merri- 
ment, even the most thoughtless, is temporar- 
ily subdued, and, for a time at least, a solemn 
hush prevails. 

Though this subduing sound is but the 
tinkle of a little bell, the message which it 
carries is a momentous one, announcing as it 
does that some member of the flock has 
reached the point where his feet press the 
border land of the unknown country. Two 
vehicles are seen approaching and the black 
robed figure in the second conveyance (the 
bell ringer being the herald) is on his way to 
ii8 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

administer the last rites to the dying. 

Among the dark folds of the priest's gar- 
ments one gets glimpses of his sacerdotal vest- 
ments, and in passing he holds aloft an em- 
blem at sight of which each villager drops on 
his knees, bows his head and makes the sign 
of the cross. 

As the sound of the bell dies away the vil- 
lagers turn to each other with eager inquiry 
or conjecture. 

"It will be the wife of Gaudiose. She has 
long been ill and the end must be at hand," 
remarks one. 

"No, the voitures are passing the dwelling 
of Gaudiose," says another. "More likely it 
is the little one of Poleon who is dying. The 
child was badly burned yesterday and is worse 
to-day." 

"Or perhaps some one has been hurt at the 
mill," ventures a third conjecturer. 

"The aged father of Joseph has been fail- 
ing lately. It may be that Le bon Dieu is 
for him." 

And so speculation continues until its pos- 
sibilities are exhausted or the reality of the 
case becomes known. 

But solemn as the note of the passing bell 

119 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

must ever be, there is no hour when its voice 
seems to us quite so impressive as when it 
breaks in thus upon the simple merriment in 
which the villagers join at the close of the 
day. 



22Q 



VII 
FARTHER ALONGSHORE 

AFTER weeks of speculation anent 
the mysterious shore region hid- 
den from our view by the long 
seaward stretching arm at La 
Tourelle, we set out on a voyage of explora- 
tion. 

With the route thither we are not alto- 
gether unfamllar, as even from our gallery 
the most distant points of the curving road 
are visible; but our real intimacy with the lo- 
caHty dates from this — our first jaunt be- 
yond the precincts of the lower village. 

The route represents merely a continua- 
tion of the long almost unbroken street of 
the coast; and here as nearly every where 
else on the road from Little Metis, the set- 
tlements so merge into each other that their 
boundary lines can be recognized by none 
but experts. Yet we pass a hill of some im- 
portance In journeying from the first to the 
second of the villages which stretch along 
the shore towards the point of La Tourelle. 
While we were still in Lower Ste. Anne 
121 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

regions, strong fishy odors from L'Echou- 
erie's beach reached us; and we found our- 
selves in the equally malodorous Ruisseau a 
Patate, without knowing just when we 
quitted L'Echouerie's borders. 

The quaint names of these settlements 
naturally arrest our attention, and *'Why 
L'Echouerie, Why Russeau a Patate,*' we 
ask our escorts. 

Regarding the origin of the latter appel- 
lation we receive no enlightenment, but in 
the matter of L'Echouerie's naming, the 
story runs that years and years ago, when 
the space now lined with primitive, though 
comparatively comfortable dwellings was 
marked by a few scattered huts, a deserted 
vessel became stranded (echoue) within the 
precincts of the beach curve now known as 
L'Echouerie. The dwellers in the huts, 
thinking that much profit might accrue to 
them through securing the vessel, gathered 
together every available bit of rope and 
fashioned wythes innumerable with which 
they did their best to moor the ship to the 
shore. 

Night fell as they completed their heavy 
task, and it was no doubt with glowing an- 
122 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ticipations of what the morrow's closer in- 
spection of their prize would reveal, that 
they quitted the ship's neighborhood and be- 
took themselves to the shelter of their rude 
houses. 

But when in the early morning they went 
to the shore to investigate their treasure, lo, 
not a sign of it was to be seen; for the tide 
had carried away, not only the wandering 
ship, but even the very fastenings with which 
it had been so laboriously moored. No 
news of the derelict ever reached these 
shores, and, but for the fact that the little 
settlement was named after the occurrence, all 
remembrance of the incident would long ago 
have passed away. 

Evidences other than the disagreeable 
ones which salute our olfactories proclaim 
these villages to be pre-eminently fishing sta- 
tions; and on days when everything is fav- 
orable to such undertakings the St. Law- 
rence of this region is dotted with fishing 
boats or with the swaying floats which indi- 
cate the presence of huge nets. 

But on the occasion of our passing, the lit- 
tle boats of L'Echouerie and Ruisseau a Pa- 
tate are resting in their harbors, while long 
123 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

stretches of gracefully festooned nets hang 
from the hooks of their drying poles. Per- 
haps the light is too searching, the day too 
fair for the prosperity of a haul. 

But no such interference affects the rival 
industry of this region. The penetrating 
buzz of the mill in operation at Ruisseau a 
Patate tells of busy times in the little settle- 
ment. To-day the mill hands are sawing 
and trimming white birch logs, (all destined 
in their final evolution to become spools,) 
while cullers perform the finishing touches 
and lop from the slender squared sticks all 
crooked or knotty or otherwise defective 
portions. A little beyond these precincts 
men and women and boys and girls are mak- 
ing tidy bundles of the sticks which have 
passed inspection and have been pronounced 
ready for shipping. 

All along this coast at intervals of 
varying distances, saw mills are to be seen. 
Some there are which concern themselves with 
woods destined for railroad ties, telegraph 
poles, deals, shingles and pulp wood, but the 
preparation of spool wood forms the chief 
milling industry of this region. 

Before visiting the shores of the Gaspe pen- 
124 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Insula we had taken scant notice of spools 
and certainly had never considered them In 
any other light than as mere holders of 
thread; but these apparently Insignificant ob- 
jects have assumed great Importance In our 
eyes since we have witnessed something of 
the wonderful machinery which their existence 
sets on foot. 

It Is represented by gangs of chantler men 
In the woods in winter, (smaller companies 
being employed at other seasons,) and by hun- 
dreds of hands in the midst of the buzzing, 
whirling apparatus of the mills in summer. 
Great shore-stretches are lined with nicely 
evened structures of the neatly sawn and care- 
fully culled spoolwood; while securely tied 
bundles of the same commodity are being 
loaded Into carts which make their way out 
to the sail boats stationed as near shore as it 
is possible for them to approach. On beyond 
— anchored out at a point where the depth 
of the St. Lawrence promises immunity from 
coast damages — one sees the ships towards 
which the sail boats make their way and to 
whose charge the bundles of spool wood are 
finally consigned. 

These ships are homeward bound Nor- 
125 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

weglan vessels and their cargo of spool wood 
will be unloaded at Ardrossen, near Glasgow, 
where the interrupted work will be resumed 
and carried on until the carefully prepared 
sticks have resolved themselves into spools. 

Great consignments of these spools travel 
back to the western shores of the Atlantic, and 
for aught we know to the contrary, the thread 
with which we stocked our work baskets be- 
fore leaving our New Jersey home may be 
wound on spools fashioned from wood origi- 
nally sent out from these very shores. 

But of all circumstances connected with this 
remarkable industry, nothing so impresses us 
as does the havoc caused by the presence in 
the white birch of an occasional innocent look- 
ing streak which is termed the red-heart. 
Many a fair appearing representative of this 
family is cut to its core, before the presence 
of the red heart is even suspected ; hence many 
a sorry looking white birch, deserted when 
half hewn, is found by those who penetrate to 
forest recesses where the echoes have been 
awakened by the sound of the lumberman's 
axe. 

In answer to our outcry against this ap- 
parent waste and cruelty we are told that 
126 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

where the red heart Is found In such propor- 
tions or positions as to affect the boards from 
which the spool wood Is made, It renders the 
wood worthless. Not that the body of the 
spool suffers detriment through the red heart's 
presence, but because the little nick or notch 
which Is always cut In the spool's rim for the 
purpose of securing the thread's end, cannot 
be made in the easily crumbling and brittle 
red heart. 

All this discriminating and lopping off and 
rejecting for the sake of an apparently unim- 
portant little notch ! 

The Inventive genius of our age Is such 
that a rectifying measure must soon be discov- 
ered; but at the time of this writing all spool 
wood operations and calculations are based 
upon the avoidance of the red heart. 

It is acknowledged that In this region no 
attention whatever Is given to forest protec- 
tion as far as the matter of restocking or of 
judicious selection In hewing Is concerned; 
and fears are occasionally entertained regard- 
ing the possible exhaustion of even Gaspe's ap- 
parently Inexhaustible forest wealth. 

But we are assured that, for the present, 
little can be done for forest protection save In 
127 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

the matter of avoiding forest conflagrations. 
Although in all public places are posted copies 
of regulations relating to measures for avoid- 
ing or extinguishing forest fires, and although 
great vigilance is exercised by the powers that 
be, serious fires, even great conflagrations, do 
occur, and the wonder is that they cease to 
rage until every tree has been consumed. 

Many a fire which originated with the 
harmless intention of securing a small clearing, 
has made such headway before control could 
be regained, that whole forests have been en- 
dangered, settlements enveloped in smoke — 
sometimes attacked by flames — and cinder 
particles have been distributed even among the 
dwellings on the coast. 

Recently, on one of these terrifying occa- 
sions, when all effort to subdue the flames 
had proved of no avail, a delegation from a 
back country region came to ask the Ste. 
Anne's cure to return with them to the scene 
of the conflagration, where it was hoped his 
prayerful influence would overcome the power 
of the fire's fury. We learn that it is not 
unusual for the villagers to call upon their 
priests to aid thus in subduing the lawlessness 
of both flood and fire. On the occasion when 
128 





^^HHH''''^'l^Hli^^Hi 




^w9^ 




"^K^B 


m. 


' '^^i»iA^!^-'>*M«JS^^IF'!iH 




' '^*8yl «g M 




^0^fM 




hA ^ m 




•1-f|^« 




'• **'JtP'^^^9^9 




''0 9 




mI -< i u^^l^l 




^Jj^mBm^ ^^^^^H 




. ^'"^'^^^^^^j^^H 




..«-*^B "^^^^Hl 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

we saw the reverend gentleman depart with 
his anxious parishioners, though control was 
not immediately gained, the fire did not work 
serious damage. 

Chantier men, berry pickers, pleasure 
seekers, in fact all makers of camp and 
smudge fires, as well as all smokers, are in 
turn charged with carelessness and consid- 
ered responsible for much of the damage 
which results through forest fires. Again it 
is claimed that great vigilance is exercised 
by all frequenters of the bush, and a curious 
theory, which has its supporters among cer- 
tain of the village and back-country folk, is 
frequently advanced as a satisfactory solu- 
tion of the fiery outbreaks. 

''It is thus that it happens" — a peasant in- 
formed us. "In the spring when ploughing 
has taken place, many a field is left with its 
furrows rolled over, and a great warmth is 
nourished and locked up in these folds of 
the earth. But should the season be a very 
dry one, the warmth becomes greater and 
greater till the earth can no longer contain 
it; and at length the heat bursts forth in 
flames and communicates itself to the near- 
est grasses or shrubs, and thus it spreads 
129 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

and the forest is reached." 

It is by way of a long hill that we arrive 
at Ruisseau a Patate, and barely have we 
reached the settlement's heart, when anoth- 
er hill confronts us. Up this elevation we 
make our way, and after reaching its sum- 
mit, we adhere for some time to the level 
to which it has led us. 

On and on we go, ever skirting the beauti- 
ful coast curves, meeting ever with the 
homes of the fishermen or mill operatives, 
until at last we gain the other side of the 
first of the Tourelle points; and looking sea- 
ward we behold the interesting object from 
which the locality is named. 

On the shore's edge, at a little distance 
from the rocky point of which it once 
formed part rises a stony tower or pillar; a 
tall, unwieldy looking column, more bulky 
at its top than at its base. It represents a 
vein, a fragment formed of sterner stuff 
than was the rocky hill of which it once 
formed part; hence better able to resist the 
wild onslaughts of the elements. Looking 
gulf ward beyond this obelisk (which is 
called le bonhomme) we see another curve 
with its long outlining row of fishermen's 
130 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

dwellings, and rounding this point we behold 
in the dim distance another Tourelle, or tow- 
er; a smaller pillar of stone, a second re- 
sisting vein, wedded through popular senti- 
ment to the first Tourelle and known by the 
name of la bonne femme. 

As we wend our way toward this distant 
point, the scenery grows wilder, the houses 
more scattered and more simple in charac- 
ter and the advent of strangers is evidently 
a great rarity. The glorious air overpowers 
every adverse influence, so that even on the 
stretches where fish are being landed and 
prepared for salting and packing, we may 
breathe without being unpleasantly reminded 
of the practical details of fishing industries. 

And, most gratifying of all, we reach a 
region which has not hitherto been invaded 
by camera fiends. 

Leaving our vehicle on the highway we 
follow a foot path leading shoreward, and 
approach a little company of fisher folk by 
whom the *'black box" is viewed with great 
interest; and a large cod, fresh from the sea, 
Is obligingly held aloft that its photograph 
may be taken. 

By the way of an entering conversational 

131 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

wedge we relate the latest news from Ste. 
Anne des Monts — the metropolis of this part 
of the world — and we give expression to our 
unfeigned admiration of the beautiful wild 
region of La Tourelle. Next we enter into 
a very simple dissertation on the most import- 
ant differences — climatic, physical and soci- 
ological — existing between our own land and 
the remote one we are visiting. From those 
of our new acquaintances not too timid to ex- 
press their views, we receive an intelligent re- 
sponse; the general attitude is unmistakably 
friendly. In particular is this the case with 
the children, whose approval we have won 
through the medium of brilliantly colored 
sweets. 

No doubt even in this remote corner — more 
than a hundred miles distant from a railroad 
— there are those who follow the newspapers' 
trend and who keep in contact with the world's 
most important moves. But we cannot help 
thinking that, for the majority, — next to 
those revered individuals most closely connect- 
ed with the great religious body to which the 
inhabitants of La Tourelle, and indeed of the 
whole coast belong; next in importance to 
the cure, the Bishop or even higher ecclesias- 
132 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

tical dignitaries, and more famous than the 
hero of a thousand battles, is the man whose 
portrait and autograph figure on every alter- 
nate bottle of the pyramidical structures with 
which the show windows of the few scattered 
one-roomed stores of this region are adorned. 
The name of this widely known celebrity is 
Perry Davis — and his Pain Killeur represents 
the coast's universal panacea. 

The alternating bottles bear a simple de- 
vice by means of which we learn that their 
contents are derived from the useful and or- 
namental plant known as the ricinus. 

The friendly chat over, we again press for- 
ward, no less eager than at the outset for a 
glimpse of the ever alluring on-beyond. But 
we abandon the quest when, after leaving La 
Tourelle, we find the outlook holds forth no 
promise of solving the mystery. Points and 
curves continue to limit the distant view, and 
we are assured that a little beyond the com- 
fortable milling district (glimpses of which 
settlement are vouchsafed us as we glance 
over the tops of the trees in whose shade our 
road loses itself) the route becomes wild and 
rocky; almost impassable in fact. The steeps 
are formidable, even in the estimation of the 
133 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

hardy traveller of "down below," and the set- 
tlements, more and more straggling and soli- 
tary. Some comfortable, even luxurious, 
homes there are to be found, we are told, 
along the desolate route, but they are as rare 
as roses In a wilderness. 

A single mission chapel breaks the long 
churchless stretch between Mont Louis and 
Ste. Anne. Clearly we have reached the end 
of our pilgrimage, and we can easily under- 
stand why some contend that Gaspe should 
be called Gaspeche; an Indian appellation, 
signifying the land's end. 

So with one last, affectionate, all-embracing 
glance In the direction of the glorious gulf 
expanse and the grand wild region of Its south- 
ern borders, we turn about and journey back 
towards that comparatively populous and stir- 
ring district, the village of Ste. Anne des 
Monts. 



134 



VIII 

SEAWARD AND SKYWARD 

MANY a time since coming to Ste. 
Anne des Monts I have thought 
of the case of a wearied teacher 
and of the remedy which an oc- 
culist prescribed for her when she went to 
him with the story of her aching eyes. 

"What is your outlook as you sit at your 
desk?" 

"It is bounded by the opposite wall." 

"And is the wall a blank one? Have you 
no opportunity of looking beyond it and of 
gaining a glimpse of the great out-of- 
doors?" 

"None whatever." 

"Then as you value your sight, move your 
desk and take up your position where, when 
you raise your eyes from your work or your 
pupils' faces, your gaze will be able to wan- 
der out to some remote point of view. 
Change the focus frequently, and above all 
things, seek wide views." 

As we look out on the glorious expanses, 
which in this region present themselves on 

135 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

every side, we wish it were in our power to 
confer on all tired eyes the boon of unfet- 
tered outlooks. 

It has often been noted that among dwel- 
lers in regions where the vision is exercised 
by frequently looking up at great heights or 
roaming out over vast horizontal stretches, 
the sight retains its vigor long beyond the 
period when less favored mortals are com- 
pelled to seek the aid of glasses; and in the 
case of our villagers we have another testi- 
mony to the truth of this theory, for specta- 
cles are rarely seen among them. 

But no doubt their naturally excellent vi- 
sion is supplemented by familiarity with the 
features and characteristics peculiar to the 
region. 

This Is noticeably the case when the ques- 
tion is one of pronouncing on the character, 
even the individuality of approaching water 
craft. 

"That will be the Louisia" remarks one, 
as far out on the horizon there dawn the 
misty outlines of a schooner. 

"Or le batiment du gouvernemeyit Is on Its 
way to us" announces a second sentinel, and 
the prophecy is fulfilled as a busy little boat 
136 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

emerges from the shadows and steams 
toward our shores. The stump orators 
alight for a few short speeches in the course 
of which they set forth the pecuHar advan- 
tages of their own political tenets over those 
of all opposing parties; and, the harangues 
completed, the campaigners again board 
their vessel and steam away to the station 
next scheduled. 

The sighting of any of the Norwegian 
vessels which approach our shores in quest of 
spool wood, is attended with great interest 
and greeted by endless comment among the 
spectators on the coast. In the course of its 
spread the contagion of the excitement attacks 
even ourselves, and we also linger on the beach 
and watch and speculate and at times almost 
fancy ourselves capable of directing ma- 
noeuvres. 

With the passing of the days we make the 
acquaintance of the ship's Captain, and many 
a stirring tale of experiences in strange lands 
or on distant waters have we heard from the 
lips of these kindly Norse gentlemen. 

Some memorable holidays there are, de- 
lightful occasions on which a ship dons its 
gala dress and summons us to sit at its hos- 

137 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

pitable board; and it is with the romantic 
sensation of responding to the invitation of a 
Viking that we gratefully accept. 

Thus it is that we have the opportunity of 
entering into a close acquaintance with that 
beautiful creature, that most life-like of all in- 
animate objects, a ship. 

The days merge into weeks and the vessel 
becomes to us as a permanent feature of the 
grand panorama. We sight it from nearly 
every point of our day-journeyings, and all 
through the night, swinging at such a lofty 
height that its glimmer blends with the radi- 
ance of the stars, glows the vessel's friendly 
signal-light. 

But one day the Viking announces that the 
ship has received its full cargo and is about 
to leave our shores. The tide conditions of 
midnight will be most favorable to the under- 
taking, he tells us; hence at that hour, usually 
so tranquil on board our ship, a great activ- 
ity prevails. The signal light is supplemented 
by a galaxy of other lights, and still other 
glimmerings in the near neighborhood of the 
ship indicate the presence of the consequential 
little steam craft that has come to tow the ves- 
sel out into the great waters. Then there is 

138 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

the rattling of lifted anchors, and the tug's 
noisy signal for departure, and the lights move 
slowly out towards the gulf. 

In the breaking of the dawn we see the tug 
at anchor near our shore; but the glass re- 
veals in the dim distance a shadowy ship with 
every sail set, heading for the open sea. 

'*We miss It, do we not, the beautiful ves- 
sel?" exclaims a villager who, like ourselves. 
Is gazing out on the river toward the now lone- 
ly stretch so recently the dwelling place of the 
friendly ship. "It Is always thus; when they 
leave It seems very desolate for a time. Vil- 
lage neighbors move away now and then, but, 
as a rule, their dwellings remain. In the case 
of the Norwegians we not only lose our 
friends but they carry their houses away with 
them." 

This qualified statement with regard to the 
flitting of villagers : ''as a rule their dwellings 
remain," would have proved mystifying in- 
deed, had we not already received enlighten- 
ment on the subject. 

"First we lived at Rulsseau a Patate, then 

at L'Echouerie, and now we belong to the 

village of Ste. Anne des Monts," said the 

wife of one of the mill operatives to us recent- 

139 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ly. *'But as we have always occupied the same 
house, all these settlements seem like home 
to us." 

It was the amazement which greeted this 
little confidence that obtained for us an ac- 
quaintance with the fact that, In these lo- 
calities, there Is a small migratory population 
which patronizes the system of hiring por- 
tions of land and of erecting their own dwell- 
ings on the leased property. One medium- 
sized house, at present a resident of upper Ste. 
Anne's, has five times pulled up stakes and 
journeyed thus to five different sections of the 
village. 

The architectural simplicity of the majority 
of these coast houses, makes their dissection, 
removal In sections, and putting together 
again, a comparatively easy task. Necessity, 
expediency or partiality for other sites, seem 
to be the motives which underlie the moves. 

When remoteness from or nearness to 
friends, relatives, schools, churches and com- 
mercial or other Important centers, interferes 
with the happiness or well-being of a house- 
hold ; when unwelcome features intrude them- 
selves on one's landscape and unsightly ob- 
jects mar one's horizon; when neighborhood 
140 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

skirmishes trouble the atmosphere, in short 
when one's surroundings become in any way 
distasteful, how delightful to be able thus to 
pick up one's dwelling and to deposit it in 
any new and congenial locality which one 
may select I 

Through much exercise of our seaward 
vision we at length become familiar with the 
various lines of steamers whose representa- 
tives pass within sight of our coast ; the pref- 
erence always being given by them to the St. 
Lawrence's southern shore rather than to the 
less direct and more unfriendly northern 
coast. 

At times we sight some Illustrious stranger 
for whose passing the pages of the press will 
have prepared us. To-day we have the honor 
of viewing far out on the sea's highway a roy- 
al squadron, and It Is with a certain sense of 
exultation and superiority that we congratu- 
late ourselves on the fortunate circumstances 
by means of which we humble coast dwellers 
are vouchsafed this earlier glimpse, while 
great cities all aglow with the brilliancy of 
holiday preparation, and multitudes keyed to 
the highest pitch of expectation, and state dig- 
nitaries primed with eloquent greetings, and 
141 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

bands of musicians and well-drilled companies 
of paraders, still wait for the vision that is 
passing our shores. 

At another time we sight a boat which is 
bearing a company of learned gentlemen to 
the far-off shores of Labrador. It is the 
point selected by these astronomers for ob- 
serving the approaching solar eclipse. Other 
scientists are hastening hither and thither in 
the effort to catch other aspects of the heav- 
enly phenomenon, some going far over seas, 
even to Egypt's shores, and the whole scien- 
tific world eagerly awaits the result of their 
observations. 

Even in our village the unscientific world 
has its keenly interested representatives. 

"What will it be like Vescrippe,'^ we hear 
a little lad asking of his father. 

"It will be like this" the parent answers, 
"At the time of Tecllpse the sun will be hid- 
den by the moon's passing between it and 
the earth." 

"But hidden, son pere !' Where is then 
the marvel? Is It not thus more than half 
the time? When we are asleep, for Instance, 
or on days when the sun does not shine at 
all? And if it Is to be hidden, why do these 
142 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

wise men give themselves the trouble of 
looking for it? To go so far to search for 
what will not be there ! It is not reasonable.'' 

Disappointment is indeed the portion of 
our people, for rain and leaden skies usher 
in the early morning hours, and dawn short- 
ly merges into a general twilight. 

Not even so fortunate as our unscientific 
selves are the learned gentlemen in Labra- 
dor; for the grayness of their morning is 
deeper than ours.* 

In the early hours we take up our position 
on the beach and gaze steadily eastward. At 
the time of its rising the sun keeps behind 
the clouds but its presence is indicated by a 
certain subdued brightness, and towards this 
comparatively luminous point we direct our 

*"In British America the eclipse began soon after 
davHght, but the low altitude of the sun at this time 
of the day tended to lessen the value of such obser- 
vations as should be made; but, waiymg this drawback 
the great amount of fog which usually covers the coast 
of Labrador in summer made it highly probable that 
the sun would not be seen at all. These considerations 
led me to eliminate the American contment from the 
problem of eclipse stations As afterwards learned, 
nearly the whole eastern North America was domin- 
ated by a heavy storm of large extent during the whole 
day of August 30, and no observations were made ot 

^^Rear Admiral Colby M. Chester in the National Geo- 
graphic Magazine of November, 1906. 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

lens. 

Gradually the clouds spread and spread 
until all attempt at brightness is banished 
and universal grayness prevails. This we 
know represents the height of the eclipse. 
Two hours later this grayness has so deep- 
ened that even near the window we can hard- 
ly distinguish print or see to enter our jour- 
nal notes. This rather depressing condition 
of the atmosphere is followed by a clearing 
and even by glimpses of the uneclipsed sun. 

A weird fogginess prevails at the sunset 
hours, and on the following morning a won- 
derful pink and purplish mistiness hangs 
over the land. Even when the sun 
shines these beautiful, strange mists are ever 
outlying, and for a few days atmospheric 
disturbances are noticeable. 

It seems like tampering with sacred 
things, this profane effort of ours to catch and 
hold the heaven's sublime expression. But 
we attempt It more than once. 

One July morning at a little after three, 
when the sea was utterly calm and the 
breath of the balsam-fir was borne coast- 
ward from the forest, I looked from my 
window, and saw a vision of unforgetable 
144 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

loveliness. Clouds of transcendant majesty 
and of unspeakable radiance announced the 
coming, of the sun; and with his appearance 
the effulgence deepened and spread until it 
colored the face of the whole sky and mir- 
rored itself in the tranquil sea. The homes 
of the sleeping villagers were now bathed in 
a golden glory and again silhouetted against 
the calm sea and the illumined sky. 

The silence of this worshipful hour was 
broken by a single voice, but that voice so 
harmonious that nature even in her sublimest 
moods, finds it ever attuned. 

Floating seaward from his home in the 
forest's heart came the voice of the hermit 
thrush. 

It is comparatively seldom that we view 
these midsummer sunrises, though at night 
our windows are left uncurtained in the hope 
of being aroused by the early brightness. 

But in this land of wide sweeps and tonic 
atmosphere, sleep is a despot and rules with 
no light hand. She is moreover a very Shy- 
lock and insists on receiving every moment 
of her due. Let us but attempt to interfere 
with her early morning sway and before the 
day is at its height, she envelops us in an 
145 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

atmosphere of Irresistible drowsiness, and 
we pay to her the equivalent of the time stol- 
en for the sunrise glimpse. 

But with the day's closing we are apt, as 
I have said, to be found assembled on our 
gallery or stationed near the beach, watch- 
ing for the earhest indications of the trans- 
formation scene. 

Sometimes both sea and sky are ablaze and 
the hills stand out as against a conflagration. 

Sometimes It is but a wild assemblage of 
Illumined clouds with which the day closes. A 
glory upon glory only broken reflections of 
which are caught by the tumultuous waters. 

More frequently at the dying of the sun 
the vision Is that of a long shaft of crimson 
or gold, or of a prostrate pillar of fire cast 
clean athwart the waters ; the radiance broken 
when our shores are reached. 

Sometimes a sheen like satin rests on the 
quiet sea ; and only on the face of serene wa- 
ters gleam the opalescent lights. 

Times there are when the mere passing 
of a little boat over the mirror-like sea will 
call Into being myriads of tiny golden rip- 
ples, while, with each lifting of the oars, rises 
and falls a shower of golden drops. 
146 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

The so-called mirage scene has many times 
been repeated — though always with varying 
effect — since the evening of our arrival; and 
strange pranks the phenomenon plays through 
its grotesque disregard of perspective and its 
whimsical multiplying and subtraction, length- 
ening and shortening, increasing and diminish- 
ing of objects. 

Is it through fear of being turned into ridi- 
cule by this Puck of the atmosphere, that the 
dignified north shores so seldom reveal them- 
selves to us? Fifty-four miles distant though 
they be, the mirage may at any time seize upon 
their appearance for a display of its necro- 
mantic power. 

Now the hills of that far off coast seem to 
rise and form in lofty columns or a success- 
sion of turrets. Now the columns and the 
turrets blend, then break again and gradually 
sink as if below the surface of the water. 

Passing boats may suddenly dwindle thus 
and rise to weird heights. We once saw a trio 
of four-masters (miles and miles out at sea 
they must have been) whose sails gradually 
narrowed while the vessels reached upwards 
till their mast tops seemed about to pierce the 
sky. 

H7 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Ships are treated with comparative respect 
by the Ariel of the mirage, and solely weird 
and romantic effects appear to be reserved for 
those poetic vessels which the winds guide. 
But it is perhaps because of their more prac- 
tical method of locomotion, that steamers are 
subjects for caricature. In their apparent ris- 
ing they are generally made to assume ridicu- 
lous, even grotesque, proportions; sometimes 
nothing but a huge ungainly hull being visible. 
This phase is generally followed by a strange 
flattening and lengthening process by which 
the hull becomes absorbed and the smoke stack 
and its immediate appurtenances appear sud- 
denly to have been transferred to an elongated 
raft of perilous thinness. 

We realize that the peculiar clearness of 
this atmosphere does not enhance the day-lit 
hours alone. An added lustre and brilliancy 
characterize even the night skies and enchant- 
ment, in a reverent form, seems to extend to 
the queen of the night herself. Now she rides 
majestically among tumultuous clouds and 
looks down into the face of angry waters. 
Again from heights unclouded or from banks 
of luminosity or through tender fleece-like dra- 
peries she casts her beams on tranquil seas, 
148 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

while forests and glade, hill and valley, are 
illumined with a light which rivals that of day, 
and entire villages are bathed in lustre. 

Mystery and solemnity are here intensi- 
fied by night's wonderful quiet; a quiet on 
which the voices of both winds and waves 
may fall without thereby disturbing the rare 
peace of the hour. 

One mid-July night my sister, who had 
tarried on the gallery after I had betaken 
myself to my sleeping room, summoned me 
back to look at what she termed "a wonder- 
ful cloud." 

And a truly awe-inspiring sight it proved 
to be. 

A marvellous phosphorescence fell like a 
vast, deeply-fringed curtain over the entire 
northern sky; so luminous that it glowed, so 
transparent that even through the strange 
whiteness the stars' radiance and the heav- 
ens' blue depths were clearly distinguisha- 
ble. 

The curtain waved and shimmered and 
finally floated away, and as we marvelled at 
the vision one who stood near us said: "You 
have been looking upon one of the many 
phases of the glorious Northern lights." 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Though the attempt to depict it be as fu- 
tile as were the effort to imbue these dull 
printed characters with a rose's fragrance or 
the melody of a bird's song, yet must I speak 
of the radiance of still another of these night 
skies. 

A month later than the occasion on which 
we first saw the north enveloped in its cur- 
tain of light, came our second vision of the 
aurora borealis. 

In every direction except northward the 
heavens were all a glitter with the radiance 
of the stars, and leading up to the zenith 
was the lustrous nebulous path which is here 
termed St. Peter's road. 

And such a merry-making, such a twink- 
ling and a racing and a chasing, such a dart- 
ing hither and thither as was going on among 
the stars. All the midsummer night fairies 
of the sky were abroad, and in the absence 
of their queen these lesser lights glowed with 
a lustre that approached her own. 

"When a star falls, a soul goes up to 
God" say the simple-hearted folk of another 
northern land; but no such solemn thought 
attached itself to the mirthful stars that shot 
athwart the blue depths of our wonderful 
150 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

sky. 

But towards the north was a reverence- 
compelling sight. There heavy clouds 
brooded over the river, but above the dark- 
ness spread a vast luminous tract. Not 
transparent, hence giving no hint of a blue 
sky on the curtain's other side, but fairly 
opaque in the depth of its lustre. 

And all around this region from the hori- 
zon to the zenith, extended great shafts of 
light; some simply luminous, others deepen- 
ing into gold and tinted with a glow as of a 
conflagration. 

Against the calm waters in which the soft 
sheen was reflected were outlined a few hu- 
man dwellings — the link between ourselves 
and immensity. 

"La mer fleurit blanc," our villagers ex- 
claim on days when long lines of breakers 
surge shoreward. Or, are the furrows brok- 
en into white-capped waves, "the sea has 
turned loose its flock of sheep," is their 
poetic thought regarding the unquiet state 
of the waters. 

Perhaps the sea is at its grandest when on 
some dark night, as the agitated waters come 
surging shoreward, their blackness is relieved 

151 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

by crest of fiery foam, and a glorying surf 
outlines the beach; while the sea-washed 
boulders, left bare for a moment as the wa- 
ters withdraw to prepare for another furious 
charge, stand out like rocks of living, pulsing 
light. 



152 



IX 



AT THE SIGN OF THE HALF-WAY 
HOUSE 

BUT infinite as are the charms which 
the sea possesses, they do not hold 
us ever at its side. Sometimes we 
wander through roads which lead 
to back-country stretches; and, looking be- 
yond the overlapping hills, we gain glimpses 
of tiny settlements nestling cosily in the hearts 
of unsuspected valleys. Or again we pene- 
trate to regions where wildness holds absolute 
sway. Where occasional clearings unmarked 
by any sign of human habitation, serve but to 
emphasize the wildness, and furnish opportu- 
nities for looking upon yet more remote hills 
and forests ; mere sign-posts to the region be- 
yond which stretches Gaspe's still unexplored 
interior. 

In the upper meadows which lie at a dis- 
tance of a mile or more back of our dwelling, 
there is one height in particular where we ob- 
tain an outlook which, for breadth and beauty 
and variety, appears to us unsurpassable. 
Too remote from the coast is the watcher 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

on this mount to catch the sound of the sea's 
voices ; yet near enough Is he to keep in tune 
with the great river's varying moods, and to 
note all that passes on its highway as far as 
the eye can reach. From this height one is 
able also to overlook the long coast sweep 
which stretches from Cape Chatte to La Tou- 
relle, as well as to command an intimate view 
of our village and of all the meadow lands 
and bush sections which He between PIsgah 
and the shore line. Then, on either side and 
back of our outlook point, extend range upon 
range of forest-clad hills and ravines ; all sug- 
gestive of mystery and of the presence of 
strange wild inhabitants which shun the haunts 
of men. 

Here and there on this elevation we come 
upon heaps of stones which in reality repre- 
sent nothing beyond a very prosaic and labor- 
ious attempt to clear the land; but to us it is 
as If each stony pile was an altar erected in 
remembrance of a heavenly vision. 

But midway between our village home and 
the Helght-of-the-wide-vlews, is a little forest 
lodge; an unpretentious nook whose subtle 
charm is such that for Its sake we frequently 
abandon a proposed pilgrimage to PIsgah, and 
154 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

yield ourselves up instead to the delicious list- 
lessness and lazy enjoyment which the neigh- 
borhood of the Half-way House induces. 

Yet not altogether in idleness are the tar- 
rying hours passed. For eyes are captured 
by the sight of forest beauties or busied in fol- 
lowing the manoeuvres of the feathered folk 
of the woods, and ears are entranced with 
their melodies; and in long-drawn inhala- 
tions we imbibe the fragrance of evergreens 
and wild flowers. 

And "who so rich as we," is our frequent 
exclamation as we rest in the shelter of this 
forest lodge. A plain little cabin constructed 
of stout saplings and bare boughs, which in 
turn are so cunningly hidden by branches of 
balsam fir and spruce that not a suggestion of 
the frame-work is to be seen. 

Three sides and a roof has our dwelling, 
but the front is open to the air and the sun- 
shine and the restful views. 

Walls hung with tapestries of balsam fir; 
couches made of layers and layers of this same 
fragrant and abundant forest-commodity; 
chairs and tables fashioned from gnarled 
roots, fantastic boughs, and stumps of trees; 
floors strewn with the balsam needles that drop 
^55 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

from our roof, and carpeted with a soft moss 
through which peeps the sturdy little ever- 
green herb whose roots are threads of gold — 
such are some of the furnishings of the Half- 
way House. 

And all around us In every direction, now 
clustering under the trees, now venturing out 
into the half shady open, riots a delicate 
evergreen vine bearing braces of as exquisite 
flowers as one could wish to see. The name- 
sake and best beloved of the Great Linnaeus 
— ^the twin flower — the Linnaeus horealis — 
whose vines carry It to the door of our lodge, 
and whose tiny blossoms sometimes peer in- 
quiringly into our very dwelling, while their 
perfumed breath mingles with the fragrance 
of the balsam fir. Was ever combination of 
fragrance more luscious or more delicate 
than this? 

"She clings with her little arms to the 
moss," said Linnaeus, when telling a friend 
of the ways of his favorite flower — "and 
seems to resist very gently If you force her 
from it. She has a complexion like the milk- 
maid; and oh! she Is very, very sweet and 
agreeable." 

In the moist regions at the entrance to our 
iS6 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

bush are entire fields of the wild blue flag, 
and the outlying meadows of which the open- 
ing near our hut permits us to gain glimpses, 
are gay and fragrant with clover and butter- 
cups, and whitened with daisies. Hardy 
ferns, golden rod, Joe Pye weed and many 
other sturdy plants and flower folk line the 
roadside, while the blue vetch flings its ten- 
drils over field and wayside flowers alike. 
Researches in the deeper woods gain for us 
visions of delicate, spirit-like ferns and of 
timid, shade — and moisture-loving plants 
and flowers. The pipe of peace and the moc- 
casin plant (the pied de cheval, the latter 
is not unaptly termed by our villagers) be- 
ing among our most highly prized trophies. 
The spruces — red and white — are beauti- 
ful and fragrant in their haunts, but experi- 
ence has taught us not to remove them from 
their out-door settings. They shortly de- 
teriorate and even become disagreeable 
when carried into the house. But the bal- 
sam fir retains its sweetness for years after 
it has been gathered, and several mounds of 
its young tips now drying in our rooms, rep- 
resent our provision for a score or more of 
slumber cushions. 

157 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Red squirrels dart In and out among our 
evergreen lattices, birds perch on the out- 
jutting supports of our cabin, and sometimes 
even the retiring hermit thrush will alight on 
the rails which form our nominal front door 
— a barricade against possible Intrusion from 
cattle. 

Never have songs of feathered minstrels 
sounded sweeter to us than do the bird notes 
which fall on the fragrant air of this tran- 
quil haunt. 

During musical seasons the woods fairly 
ring with the serene song of the hermit 
thrush and the clear silvery call of the white 
throat; while robins, juncos, vesper, song, 
and other sparrows, nut-hatches, chickadees, 
woodpeckers, cedar birds, warblers, vireos, 
finches of various kinds, and I cannot say 
how many other representatives of the feath- 
ered tribe, are seen or heard In bewildering 
numbers. 

Neither here nor toward the shore does 
the English sparrow tarry. I saw two or 
three of his variety near our village recently 
but they had rather the air of transients — 
commercial travellers, government inspec- 
tors or some such migratory beings — than of 

158 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Individuals who were considering the ques- 
tion of permanently taking up their quarters 
with us. 

The road which winds before our hut is 
not worn by the frequent passing of either 
feet or wagons; yet the grass-covered route 
is a thoroughfare of a certain kind. Now 
and then our outlook will be eclipsed by a 
load of hay on its shoreward way; or the 
crackling of the neighboring bushes will be 
followed by the appearance of a stray horse 
or a cow. Or perhaps a herd of cattle will 
pass us on its way to the nearby brook; or a 
flock of sheep, bound for pastures new, will 
halt before our hut and bestow on us a few 
moments of Inquisitive and startled atten- 
tion. 

Days may elapse without bringing one of 
our own kind to the neighborhood of the 
Half-way House, yet human passers there are 
now and then. It may be that a single indi- 
vidual or a little company bent on field pur- 
suits, berry quests or cattle hunts, will give us 
a polite hon jour In passing, or — In response 
to our invitation — ^will halt and chat awhile. 

One day we capture a very young NImrod 
— a village lad armed with no home-made 

159 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

weapon, but with that familiar city product, an 
air rifle. We are bent on a reform, but cau- 
tiously and somewhat indirectly we begin our 
crusade against bird-slaughter. 

"Can you tell us the name of that bird?" 
we ask, pointing to a busy, unsuspecting robin. 

Without a moment's hesitation, the juvenile 
hunter makes answer — 

'^Ca c'est une outarde, mesdames/^ (That, 
ladies, is a bustard). 

We propose rouge-gorge as a more appro- 
priate title, but it is easily seen that the sug- 
gestion does not find favor. 

"There are those who call that bird a 
merle'^ (blackbird), he continues with some- 
thing of the air of a concession, "but as rouge- 
gorge it is never known among us." 

"And the little bird yonder," we continue, 
pointing to a slate colored junco. 

"That, mesdames, has no name. It is 
simply a bird — there are a few with names, 
such as Valouette,"^ le pic-hois, le martin pe- 
cheur, le chadronnet (chardonneret) le recol- 
let, Voiseau de proie, le hibou, le corheau, le 
corneille, le go Slant, but for all the rest they 



*The snipe, shore lark, the woodpecker, the king- 
fisher, the goldfinch, the cedar bird, the bird of prey, 
the owl, the gull. 

1 60 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

are simply birds — red birds, blue birds, black 
birds, gray, brown, yellow, green, mixed-col- 
ored and even white birds. But all these are 
simply birds — tout simplement des oiseaux. 
Do the ladies not see that there would not be 
names to go round if each kind had its own?'' 

"Could I have classified our feathered 
friends with the simple directness made use 
of by your young hunter," said an eminent 
ornithologist to whom we related the fore- 
going incident, "I should have economized 
time and strength sufficient to enable me to 
embark on an entirely new field of science." 

But however circumspectly and cautiously 
we may have intended leading up to the 
moral of the interview, all circumlocution 
was cut short, as, during a pause in the con- 
versation, our Nimrod raised his rifle and 
took aim at a hermit thrush. 

"You must not shoot that beautiful bird," 
we exclaimed, in tones altogether unlike the 
ceremonious ones we had hitherto used in 
addressing our caller. 

Desisting from his purpose but unabashed 
the little lad made answer: 

"It is for the service of man that le bon 
Dieu makes all these creatures." 
i6i 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Such an air of reproof and superiority 
and such an appearance of conscious recti- 
tude accompanied this statement that we 
could hardly forbear smiling. But a little 
dissertation on what is comprised in that 
large term "the service of man," caused the 
youngster to modify his opinions and 
brought him, temporarily at least, to accept 
our point of view. 

"After all, it is true that these little crea- 
tures sing pleasingly, and the bush would be 
less agreeable without them; and I never be- 
fore understood that they eat the little beasts 
(insects) that injure the nice cherries and 
berries and spoil the grain. I thought that 
birds served man in no other way than by 
furnishing him with food. Partridges, for 
example, are certainly for that purpose, but 
the law does not permit us to kill them out 
of season. 

"And I want to shoot now — I want at once 
to try my new gun on some living thing. 
What shall it be? 

"Ah, I know! I will kill the crows! They 
are black and wicked like the evil one. This 
very morning did I not see two of the mis- 
chievous creatures swoop down among some 
162 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

tiny chickens that were out walking in the 
field with the old mother hen, and in no time 
two of the poor little things were sailing 
through the air in the clutches of those 
wicked crows. Why had I not my gun then? 
At any rate, this is what I will do. From 
this time forth I will kill every crow I meet !" 

We admitted that we ourselves had wit- 
nessed more than one successful crow attack 
on a band of tiny chicks, and we deplored 
the depredation quite as earnestly as did our 
young friend. But we told him of the crow's 
valuable assistance as a coast scavenger, and 
although we had no fear that our hunter's 
threat of universal slaughter would be ac- 
complished, we carefully explained that for 
more than one reason the extermination of 
the crow race was not desirable. 

How much the latter part of our lesson im- 
pressed him we cannot say; but at any rate we 
received for our dear friends, the birds of the 
bush, a solemn promise of immunity from at- 
tack. 

Not long after the young huntsman had 
gone his way, our lodge was honored by a vis- 
it from another village lad. Number two was 
passing us by with a respectful salutation 
163 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

merely, but we invited him to enter; and it 
must be acknowledged that in issuing the invi- 
tation, curiosity influenced us quite as much as 
did hospitality. 

It was neither Sunday nor feast day; yet 
here was a twelve-year-old lad decked out in 
holiday attire — even to a little button-hole 
bunch of flowers — and sauntering through the 
fields and woods with the leisurely gait and 
manner that belong only to days of fete, and 
that indicate so plainly the respectful regard 
due to one's best clothes. 

"And it is fete in our neighborhood" he 
made answer when we approached him on the 
subject of his gala attire. "The ladies heard 
the church bell ringing this morning?" 

"Yes, this morning, and on every other 
morning, afternoon and evening since our ar- 
rival," we made answer. 

"But, pardon, it is not every day that the 
bell rings in this particular manner," he re- 
torted eagerly. "This morning it meant 
something especial. In the night a little daugh- 
ter came to the home of our neighbor, the 
blacksmith. When the baby was about six 
hours old (which proved to be at the hour of 
mass) they took her to church for her chris- 
164 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

tening, and I," with a look of delighted im- 
portance, "I was chosen to be her godfather. 
And so it is fete to-day both in the black- 
smith's home and in ours." 

"No doubt your families are related" we 
said, thinking we had found the clue to the 
selection of this very young godfather. 

*' Pardon, we are but friends and neigh- 
bors," he answered. 

Remembering that in a certain long eccle- 
siastical list of individuals whom a man may 
not marry, the name of his goddaughter fig- 
ures, we were beginning to distress ourselves 
with regard to the possible thwarting of a ro- 
mance between the bright little boy before us, 
and the young lady who was six hours old at 
the time of the morning mass. But we soon 
concluded that not only was the matter no 
affair of ours, but that the bridge was one 
which would not require crossing for many a 
day to come. 

Since our conversation with the young god- 
father, we have learned that even at the pres- 
ent date the selection of godparents from 
among juveniles Is not an unknown observance 
in old world countries; and in the case of 
our villagers. It no doubt represents a rem- 
1 6s 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

nant of the customs brought hither by their 
Norman ancestors. 

In spite of the little lad's statement that the 
ringing of the church bell denoted something 
particular on the morning in question, it can- 
not be claimed that baptismal chimes are un- 
usual sounds in these localities where the pro- 
verbial Canadian family figures so conspicu- 
ously. Twenty-two children is the largest 
count of any couple within a radius of ten 
miles of Ste. Anne des Monts. The banner- 
family of the village is represented by a clus- 
ter of nineteen children; the parents of sev- 
enteen taking second rank, while of families 
of fourteen or fifteen olive branches, there are 
too many to excite particular comment. 

When speaking to these easy-going villag- 
ers regarding the care and responsibility of 
bringing up large families, we are always met 
with the assurance that the charge of a good 
sized family represents less trouble than do 
two or three children or even a single child. 
The not unusual custom of adding to their 
households by the adoption of orphans proves 
that practice supports these people in their 
generous theory. We have noted with amuse- 
ment that a certain ceremonious behavior gen- 
i66 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

erally characterizes the attitude of foster par- 
ents towards the children of their adoption. 
"One must remember that he is an orphan," 
said a foster mother to us, by way of vindi- 
cating her conduct in excluding from the pun- 
ishment which she administered to her own 
children, a little orphaned ward who had 
transgressed with the others and deserved an 
equal share of the chastisement. 

It is perhaps some phase of this same sen- 
sitiveness that induces us to throw a veil over 
the shortcomings of this land of our summer 
adoption; for I find myself reluctant to ac- 
knowledge that even this ideal refuge, the 
Half-way House, has its occasional draw- 
backs. Now and then the neighborhood of 
our forest nook suffers through visitations 
from mosquitoes, black flies and those almost 
microscopic scourges known as sand-flies. Bru- 
leaux, the latter are appropriately termed by 
the French. But the outdoors of this region 
Is large enough to meet all possible demands 
and emergencies, and on the rare occasions 
when the hospitality of the Half-way House 
becomes inhospitable, we avoid its neighbor- 
hood and wander along the coast or through 
the village. Both of these localities enjoy 
167 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

immunity from all the aforesaid forest pests. 

One day when mosquitoes in modified 
moods and numbers were present in the 
neighborhood of the lodge, and the smoke 
from a mound of evergreen branches and 
birch bark scrolls sufficed to keep the intrud- 
ers in check, chance turned the occurrence to 
our great advantage and put us in the way 
of hearing a pleasing little legend of the 
coast. 

"Here, one is indeed well," said a farmer- 
acquaintance, as he halted before the Half- 
way House. "But back there," indicating 
the dense forest-region from which he had 
come, "back there it is terrible to-day, and 
one is massacre by the flies." 

An enumeration of the coast villages 
whose nearness to forests invite occasional 
fly and mosquito visitations, brought us to 
the mention of Grand Mechin, and in an- 
swer to our speculations and conjectures with 
regard to the origin of the settlement's 
name, our visitor proceeded to relate the 
following legend. 

"In the olden days when ours was still a 
savage country and the brave French mis- 
sionaries came hither to make known the gos- 
i68 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

pel story, there roamed through these re- 
gions a few Indians, and by them it was as- 
serted that Outlcou, one of the great spirits 
of evil, had taken up his habitation near 
Les Islets. 

"He clothed himself in a gigantic human 
form, and many and terrible were the tales 
told of his deeds and of his might. Never 
was he seen during the day, for night was 
the time of his power; but only in his own 
domain could he work evil, and then to none 
but the unbaptized. Any of these unfortu- 
nates who came within his power he ate with- 
out ceremony. 

"But in a measure as this dreadful prac- 
tice became known, fewer and fewer were 
his human repasts. For the savages, as they 
approached Outicou's domain, would either 
hasten to a missionary and ask to be bap- 
tized, or else they would halt over night on 
the safe outer confines of the Grand Mech- 
ant's territory, as the giant's domain soon 
came to be called. 

"Now there was one savage more obdur- 
ate than all others, and to the pleading mis- 
sionaries he always made answer: 'Not to- 
day will I be baptized. Later, later. There 
169 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

is yet no haste.' 

"But one dark night this very savage, in 
company with another savage and a strange 
missionary, found himself within the bound- 
aries of the Grand Mechant's kingdom. 

" 'I cannot remain here,' said the unbap- 
tized one. 'I will push on beyond this set- 
tlement, and await your coming.' 

" 'But why can you not rest with us here 
to-night?' said the missionary, to whom the 
story of Outicou was unknown. 'We are 
too weary to proceed and the night is so 
wild.' 

" 'It is because, because,' said the savage 
hesitating. 'Because, because — ' and only 
after much urging would he relate the story 
of the Grand Mechant. On hearing the tale 
the missionary did but laugh. 

" 'But if you have this dread of the evil 
one, and if the sacred rite can preserve you 
from him, why not let me administer the 
sacrament at once?' 

" 'Later, later,' replied the Indian, still un- 
decided. 'There is yet no haste.' 

" 'At any rate, I command you to remain 
here to-night,' said the missionary; 'and I 
promise that no harm shall overtake you.' 
170 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

"So the savage remained, and, with the 
missionary and the baptized Indian, he lay 
down in the tent. But not to sleep, for the 
terror of Outlcou was upon him. 

''And not without reason; for at midnight 
there was a sound as of thunder and the ter- 
rible face of the giant peered In at the tent. 

" 'You are mine. I have long waited for 
you,' he hissed, pointing a threatening finger 
at the trembling savage. 'Come with me, for 
you are mine I tell you.' 

"But just as the mighty arm was being 
thrust Into the tent, the Indian drew over him- 
self the robe of the sleeping priest at whose 
side he lay. 

"At this, Outlcou withdrew; but In parting 
he said — fire flashing from his eyes as he 
spoke the words: 'I leave you for the pres- 
ent but I will shortly return, and In pledge 
thereof I lay my club at the door of your tent. 
You will see that it Is the weapon of a being 
of might.' 

"In the morning when the missionary 
awoke, the terrified savage related to him the 
story of the midnight apparition; and with- 
out any urging presented himself for baptism. 

"When his forehead was sealed with the 
171 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

sign of the cross, he stepped boldly from the 
tent. 

"But lo, at the door lay Outlcou's pledge : 
a mighty tree torn up by the roots. At sight 
of it the savage quailed. 

" Tear not/ said the priest, 'for it shall 
serve a holy purpose.' And with the aid of 
the savages, he fashioned of the tree, a cross 
which he blessed and planted in the very spot 
where Outicou had stood. 

"At the sign of the sacred symbol, the 
Grand Mechant (or Grand Mechin as the 
name became at last,) fled and halted only 
when he reached Abitibi. 

"And never more was he seen in the neigh- 
borhood of the village which is still known by 
his name.'' 



172 



WITH THE WINDING RIVER 

THE Grande Riviere of Ste. Anne 
des Monts empties Into the St. Law- 
rence at the point where we saw 
the homeward-bound pilgrims cross- 
ing the ferry. During dayllt hours, It Is the 
practical side of this river that Impresses us 
as we halt at Its mouth ; for here — at a short 
distance, from the coast — Is stationed a large 
mill : the goal of all the logs that are floated 
down the Grande Riviere. Here also are 
stacks of lumber and cords of pulpwood as 
well as various buildings connected with the 
mill's workings. 

Of village houses there are but few In this 
particular locality. Therefore, during those 
hours when the din of machinery Is no longer 
heard, the place is almost solitary, and In the 
dimness and quiet of twilight the supernatural 
predominates and the manor house resumes Its 
ancient character. 

When the building is illumined by no other 
light than the light of the moon, or of flames 

173 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

leaping and curling around the logs in the 
open fire place ; when no sound other than the 
booming of the surf or the uncanny creaking 
of ancient stairways and sunken floors is 
heard, — then is the hour for fancy's sway. 

Gradually the ghostly creakings resolve 
themselves into the rustle of garments and the 
play of dancers' feet; while hither and thither 
glide the shades of merrymakers of over sev- 
enty years ago ; and the scene of weird revel- 
ry lasts till the flouting of some practical on- 
looker, or the approach of prosaic hours puts 
the ghostly visitors to flight. 

But to-day we do not halt near manor house 
precincts, for our destination lies far beyond 
the region of mills and booms and stony piers. 
We are bound for that remote, dreamy-look- 
ing country, glimpses of which are vouchsafed 
us where the nearby hills separate at the bid- 
ding of the Grande Riviere. 

About a mile above the river's mouth, — 
at a point hidden from us by the stream's 
windings — our guides and our skiffs await 
us. To join them we are compelled to make 
a lengthy detour. 

Were it not for low-tide conditions, we 
might embark here, at the point where the 
174 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

boom meets the mill. Instead, however, we 
cross the ferry and drive along the coast 
route till we reach the first diverging road. 
It lies at our left and appears, at the outset, 
chary of unfolding its length. But arrived 
at the summit of the hills toward which it 
leads, all concealment is at an end, and a 
beautiful vision bursts upon the view. 

Before us is displayed the entire Happy 
Valley: its fields of many-shaded grains all 
billowing and shimmering in the sunlight; its 
vast meadow-stretches breathing forth in- 
cense of clover and new-mown hay while, 
wandering through its near and distinct pas- 
tures, are herds of cattle and flocks of sheep. 

On either side of this beautiful wide val- 
ley-plain, rise range upon range of wooded 
hills. Now and then the forests invade the 
meadows and make friendly overtures to the 
human habitations, 

Beyond the confines of the hamlet, rising 
over the heads of the pine-clad heights on 
which some of the homes are perched, may 
be seen still other heights; but by none of 
these is the vision bounded. The eye wan- 
ders on until it rests on the soft blue outlines 
of the Shickshock Mountains, some seven- 

175 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

teen miles distant from the valley's heart. 

As we proceed plalnward from our coast- 
hill elevation, all sight of the sea is cut off; 
nor is the vision of the St. Lawrence regained 
until the hamlet's heights have been chmbed. 

On entering the valley Itself we note that 
even the character of the atmosphere is 
changed, for here no salty flavor mingles 
with the aroma of the wild flowers or of the 
forest trees; and the thermometer rises sev- 
eral degrees under the influence of the shel- 
tering coast hills. It Is as If we had sudden- 
ly been transported many miles southward, 
and were passing through one of our own 
beloved New England valleys. 

There are days on which our valleyltes 
complain of the really intense heat, and envy 
the coast dwellers their comparative Immun- 
ity from this extreme. Not infrequently do 
smudge fires smouldering before the doors 
of Happy Valley houses. Indicate the pres- 
ence of persecuting flies and mosquitoes. But 
there are compensations In this, as in every 
other case. 

Winter's rigors, as experienced by shore 
dwellers, are known to the valleyltes only 
when they pass beyond their sheltered domain. 
176 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

For the wild winds of the coast are intercepted 
by the same protecting hills which exclude 
from the valley, the sea's refreshing summer 
breezes. 

But great as are the attractions of the ham- 
let, beautiful as are the vast meadow stretches, 
and, grand and imposing, both near and dis- 
tant heights, the glory of the valley lies in none 
of these, for its river is its crown. 

The glittering waters meet our gaze the 
moment we reach the coasthill's summit, and 
at our left winds the silvery stream, all 
through the valley's precincts. 

Southward, beyond the hamlet's limits, we 
see the Grande Riviere as it emerges from 
forest boundaries and makes its way seaward. 
Now it glitters through the trees, again it 
disappears in the dark recesses of the woods. 
Next it winds its sparkling length through 
meadows gay with clover, daisies and butter- 
cups. 

Here its high steep banks are honeycombed 
with myriads of cliff swallows' nests; there 
its borders are so low that the higher tides 
trespass on the meadow confines. 

It is where the river approaches the hamlet 
that our guides await us. 
177 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

We alight at the most advantageous road- 
point, which, by the way, proves to be beside 
the dwelling of our Happy Valley host. Him- 
self a king among fishermen, he Is ready, with 
good advice and cunning tackle, to supple- 
ment our sportsmen's needs. For, through 
the courtesy of those who control the fishing 
rights, we are permitted to try our luck with 
the denizens of the Grande Riviere. 

Followed by many an encouraging bonne 
chance, we leave the road for the foot-path 
leading across fields to the riverside, and are 
soon comfortably settled in our skiffs. 

One passenger and two guides is each boat's 
regulation apportionment ; for though the riv- 
er runs smoothly and even lazily in certain 
sections, In others it rushes madly over dan- 
gerous slants and stony stretches, and over- 
weight would tax the guides too severely and 
might even involve peril. 

This is a region where — during summer's 
gentle rule — optimism reigns; and in this at- 
mosphere, anxieties and painful memories do 
not thrive. For Mother Nature here takes 
possession, and hearts grow peaceful and 
childlike under her wise sway. 

178 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

Now the river widens and now it narrows. 
Now the rounded summits of the Shickshocks 
appear; now they vanish. Now the wooded 
hills close in around us, again they recede ; but 
the hamlet once left behind our path is 
through the forest, and from its borders and 
Its depths float the greetings of feathered min- 
strels. 

Here, as in the hut's neighborhood, hermit 
thrush and white throat hold high carnival 
while many a humbler strain blends in the 
chorus. 

Now the kingfisher's lively rattle breaks 
upon the air. Here the Canada jay puts in 
his Impertinent word. Again the gentle sand- 
piper's voice is heard as he goes bowing and 
teetering along the riverside course ; and there, 
a company of startled ducks skim the waters 
and disappear in a bush-protected harbor. 

The stream's greatest extent is lined with 
a wonderful collection of smoothly worn 
stones, ranging In size from tiny pebbles to 
great boulders. But again, it is from fern 
clad banks or high sharp rocks that the trees 
look down Into the water's face. 

Sometimes the forest halts on the brink 
179 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of sheer clay banks, at whose base lie deep, 
tranquil pools; and in these and other quiet 
depths, we catch glimpses of dusky figures, 
— forms, at sight of which the sportsmen's 
eyes sparkle and the guides exclaim triumph- 
antly. To their keen vision these finny shapes 
are often discernible even among the rapids. 

And rapids innumerable there are, though 
not all formidable as far as depth is con- 
cerned. For frequently, when passing through 
them, our boats scrape their rocky river-bed, 
and at times the guides step from the skiff 
to the stream, and tow and propel their 
passengers through the rushing water courses. 

But other rapids there are where the force 
of the volume is tremendous and where 
boats, under unskilled guidance, would be 
whirled about and dashed to pieces on the 
rocks, or engulfed in the treacherous eddies 
and mad currents. 

There may have been times when our at- 
titude towards these guides (nearly all of 
whom, by the way, are chosen from among 
members of the Happy Valley clan) has 
partaken largely of a species of kindly pa- 
tronage; the outcome, perhaps, of our sup- 
posed superiority as people of higher intel- 
i8o 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

lectual attainments, as representatives of a 
wider, more cultured realm. 

But how insignificant and inferior and un- 
skilled we feel as we sit passively in our 
skiffs, while our sturdy boatmen pilot us 
through the turbulent waters. And how 
small and superficial our supply of knowl- 
edge, when compared with their practical 
store. To them the path through the seeth- 
ing waters is as distinct and as practicable^ 
as is to us the safe, well-worn path through 
the meadows, or the hillside's zigzag route. 

Now we swerve to the right of the stream ; 
now we veer suddenly towards its opposite 
bank, as the boat follows the impulse of the 
heavy metal-tipped poles which our guides 
wield with such easy grace. This grace of 
action is undisturbed even when wild waters 
call for rapid and violent movement; and 
the metal tips crash loudly and irregularly 
against the threatening boulders. 

This up-the-river voyage is up-hill work 
indeed in many sections, for the slant of the 
river is considerable. But on the return trip 
there are stretches where an occasional skil- 
ful dip serves to guide the boat and even the 
rapids' violence is turned to good account by 
i8l 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

these clever navigators. 

Halts along this route are regulated by 
no Mede and Persian schedule. They fol- 
low the whims of fancy rather, or are per- 
haps influenced by humane dictates. For 
even our sturdy boatmen require an occa- 
sional rest, and opportunities for a riverside 
club-meeting, usually follow the exertion of 
poling through a long series of obstinate 
rapids. 

Again it may be In response to hunger's 
demands that the little boats draw up on the 
shore; and, In this practical emergency, our 
guides again prove their resourcefulness and 
their superiority; and evoke, not only our 
admiration, but our envy. 

But it Is neither for refreshment nor rest, 
nor yet in answer to a roaming fancy's sug- 
gestion that we halt at this particular section 
of the riverside. The rapids yonder, repre- 
sent a salmon rendezvous and the hour for 
the test of sportsmanship has come. 

We, the feminine members of the expedi- 
tion, are courteously urged to try our luck, 
but we unanimously and persistently relin- 
quish all possible chances in favor of our es- 
corts; and from the comfortable nook to 
182 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

which they lead us, we watch the manoeuvres 
of our sportsmen. 

Oblivious of us, and of everything not re- 
lating directly to the quest, they soon become, 
in their eager consultation of a certain thin 
volume whose few pages are all flyleaves and 
whose mysteries are as readily apprehended 
by the unlettered guide as by the college-bred 
sportsman or the man of the world. 

In subdued, but animated tones, they ex- 
amine and discuss the contents of the strange 
volume. Much is said concerning the rela- 
tive merits of Professors and Silver Kings, 
of Brown Fairies and Jock Scotts and of many 
another pretty, innocent-looking little winged 
creature beneath whose borrowed plumage 
lurks the salmon's deadly foe. 

The sportsman's choice made and his tackle 
in order, he proceeds to the great undertaking. 
Next we hear the whistle of the long fine line, 
as, in response to the fisherman's artistic man- 
oeuvres, it swings now backward and now 
forward; now to this side and now to that. 
Escaping, as if by miracle, the clutches both 
of treacherous tree-tops and waterside tan- 
gles. But whether in looping or undulating or 
with a simple direct cast, the line almost In- 

183 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

variably carries the fly to the very spot where 
the presence of the beautiful prey is either 
recognized or suspected. 

Again and again the air is cleft by the deli- 
cate whizzing and whistling of the line, but 
human speech is little heard during this mo- 
mentous period. 

Now the interest condenses and centres 
around a single sportsman ; a lucky fisherman 
who silently, but impressively raises his hand 
for a minute as if to bespeak our closest at- 
tention. And the guides exchange triumphant 
nods and gestures, and utter low exclamations 
of delight as the delicate upper rod bends Hke 
a bow, and the reel rattles merrily and the 
long line lengthens and grows taut as — under 
the guidance of some mysterious agency — it 
darts madly down the stream. 

"One must either let the salmon work or 
make him work," remarks an eager fellow 
sportsman, as, with keen appreciation and un- 
qualified approval, he follows the acting fish- 
erman's skillful tactics. "The salmon needs 
no urging now, and for a time he will wisely 
be allowed to have things much his own way." 

No doubt, at this point, the victim's hopes 
run high; if indeed he has yet any suspicion 
184 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

of the fact that he is a prisoner. Perhaps he 
gloats in the supposed undisputed ownership 
of a detached, if an uncomfortable and un- 
swallowable fly, as his captor gives him his 
way; at times even following submissively 
along the bank or venturing out into the 
stream in accordance with his captive's whims 
and the case's exigencies. 

But such one-sided sport cannot continue 
indefinitely, and at times the cautious shorten- 
ing of the line brings the prize to a halt or 
influences his selection of a route. Again he 
leaps high into the air, but the glittering vi- 
sion may be succeeded by a wild dash through 
the rapids : a complete disappearance, or even 
an apparent escape. 

But next we see his salmon-ship being cau- 
tiously drawn towards his captor, and we, in 
our ignorance, conclude that the struggle is 
about to end. It is naught but the da capo 
sign however, and the exciting history repeats 
itself from the beginning. 

The interest of the guides and sportsmen 
does not extend beyond the scene of conflict; 
but we sometimes permit our eyes a wider 
range. A range which Includes not only the 
wild romantic settings of the picture, but the 
i8s 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

absorbed watchers themselves, as they conjec- 
ture and discuss, or hope and dread or advise 
and commend. 

"Forcez le pas trop, m'sieu," whispers cau- 
tiously through fingers curved to speaking 
trumpet proportions, a guide of the conserva- 
tive school. 

"Forcez le encore un peu m'sieu," cries 
through a transmitter of the same convenient 
pattern, an excited and venturesome local fish- 
erman. 

But the hero of the occasion, heedless alike 
of praise or blame and too absorbed to note 
suggestions, proceeds on his own wise way 
until the grand climax is reached. Then he 
makes a signal shoreward in response to which 
a guide armed with the cruel gaff, steps cau- 
tiously into the stream, and with the body 
bent low in the hope of escaping the victim's 
notice, he advances cautiously towards the 
point where the line ends and the fly holds the 
struggling, weakening salmon. Perhaps no 
movement, not even the exciting one when the 
first thrill of the rod, or the first tug at the 
line is felt, can equal in intensity the sensation 
of this culminating instant. For, even at this 
advanced juncture, the fish may elude his pur- 
i86 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

suer. Unwise haste, unwise delay, a slip of 
the gaff or some mischance which neither 
sportsman or gaffer can foresee or forestall, 
may liberate the fish and send him darting 
back to his free companions. 

But success rewards our sportsman's clev- 
er manoeuvres and his assistant's adroitness, 
and in another minute the gaffer holds his 
prey aloft. 

Shortly after this, the salmon is deposited 
on the beach, where a single blow on the 
back of his head puts an end to his struggles. 

Then the Ohs and the Ahs of satisfaction 
and delight as the beautiful creature is held 
up to view! And the congratulations, the 
speculations, the canvassings of the entire 
course of the capture. What joy in it all! 

"Do you suppose," said a thoughtful femi- 
nine onlooker, "that the greatest of Wall 
Street triumphs can yield such genuine de- 
light, such unalloyed exultation, as this sim- 
ple experience affords?" 

It is not always from the riverside that 
our sportsmen carry on the siege, for it may 
be from the heart of a skiff that the long line 
is cast. As we proceed on our journey, a 
sudden lowering of voices and a quick re- 

187 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

versal of propelling poles* may announce 
that a golden opportunity awaits the salmon 
hunter. 

Even the actual capture may be effected 
from within the boat, and the waters at the 
skiff's side froth and foam, as the cruel gaff 
enters the beautiful body and the struggling 
prize is lifted out of its friendly element. 

Speaking from the sportsman's point of 
view, six successes and two failures are 
scored during this expedition. Perhaps the 
salmon record them as six failures and two 
successes. 

But, according to the interpretation of 
that most genial and kindly of fishermen, Dr. 
Henry van Dyke, our six captives have at- 
tained the most enviable distinction to which 
a salmon can aspire. 

^'Suppose a fish is not caught by an angler, 
what is his alternative fate? He will either 
perish miserably in the struggles of the 
crowded net, or die of old age and starva- 
tion like the long lean stragglers which are 
sometimes found in the shallow pools, or be 



*This reversal of the pole — this substitution of the 
flattened wooden top for the sharp metal point — is 
made with the view of avoiding the telltale click against 
the rocks. 

i88 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

devoured by a larger fish, or torn to pieces 
by a seal or an otter. Compared with any 
of these miserable deaths, the fate of a sal- 
mon who is hooked in a clear stream, and 
after a glorious fight receives the happy dis- 
patch at the moment when he touches the 
shore, is a sort of euthanasia. And since the 
fish was made to be man's food, the angler 
who brings him to the table of destiny in the 
cleanest, quickest, kindest way, is, in fact, his 
benefactor."* 



*"Little Rivers," by Dr. Henry van Dyke. 



189 



XI 



Sur le Bord de L'eau 

Arranged by M. Mc. D. de Regt. 



i 



I 



I sa beau s'y pro - me - ne 



# 



W^ 



9iitfc*^ 



^& 




Le long de son jar - din 



Le long de 

I 



9^=f= 



^ 



^m^ 




son jar-din,Sur le bord de I'i 



le. 



ti 



fcc 



# 



^m. 



33^3113 



^EIS^ 



ffc 



*^5e5 



a 



±a 






^ 



83 



i^s 



Le long de 



jar - din, Sur le 



!3^ 



190 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 



W^—d P rr — -P— .H ^i^ i I- 



bord de I'eau, Sur le bord du vais - seau. 
^ -^ ^- ^- -^ -^ -^ 

-I T K 1 , b m \m- 



feH^ -r m=ig g^i 



r 

So sang our guides as we embarked on our 
second up-the-river expedition. 

With mid- August, (from which period 
dates the governmental prohibition of sal- 
mon-fishing In Canadian tributary streams,) 
comes a narrowing of the sportsman's scope. 
Until some weeks after this date, however, 
no injunction Is laid upon trout-fishing and 
It is in quest of the be-jewelled beauties that 
our second Grande Riviere expedition Is un- 
dertaken; the expedition which opens with 
the song of the beautiful Isabeau's wander- 
ings and her galant's tragic fate. 

In his Chansons Populaires du Canada, 
Monsieur Ernest Gagnon characterizes this 
air as une delisieuse melodie; but, In order 
to appreciate to the utmost all the wlstful- 
ness and weirdness of the strains, one should 
hear them under conditions as fortunate as 
those that favored our introduction to Isa- 
beau. 

To the rythm of musical waters and the 
191 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

murmurings of deep fragrant forests, ring 
out the untutored, but not unmusical voices 
of our guides while their lithe figures sway 
In accompaniment to the song. Even the 
click of the pole tips, or the soft dipping 
sounds which tell of journeylngs through 
quiet waters, all having their share In per- 
fecting the melody. 

A soloist begins the story of Isabeau's 
wanderings through the river-bordered gar- 
den of her Island home. A band of sturdy 
voices repeat the lines, and thus leader and 
chorus proceed through the entire song, all 
uniting In the walling refrain with which each 
stanza closes. 

Sur le bord de I'eau, 
Sur le bord du valsseau. 

After a time Isabeau perceives that a 
barque equipped with thirty sailors, Is ap- 
proaching the Island. The youngest of the 
sailors Is singing. Isabeau tells him that she 
would like to know his chanson, and, In re- 
sponse to his assurance that he will sing It for 
her If she will step Into the boat, she embarks. 

But suddenly she bursts Into tears. 
192 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

"What Is the matter with you, my beauti- 
ful one, that you weep so bitterly?" 

*'I mourn my gold ring which has fallen In- 
to the water." 

"Weep no longer, la belle. I will dive for 
It" 

In the first plunge the galant Is unsuccess- 
ful. In the second, he appears to have dis- 
lodged the ring, for It vaults Into the air, on 
ly to disappear again however, but the faith- 
ful lover seeks It anew, and from the third 
plunge he never returns. 

De la trolsieme plonge 
Le galant s'est noye, 
Le galant s'est noye, 
Sur le bord de I'lle. 
Le galant s'est noye 
Sur le bord de I'eau 
Sur le bord du valsseau. 

Thus ends the melancholy story and, inane 
as It may appear In Its cold-blooded English 
rendering, we all agree that no Canadian 
chanson Is better fitted to echo among these 
lonely northern forests or to blend with the 
193 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

varying voices of this solitary stream, than is 
the song of Isabeau and her unfortunate ad- 
mirer. 

But while we are still discussing the tragedy 
and its quaint musical setting, the guides (per- 
haps with counteractive measures in view) 
break out into a rollicking air, in keeping time 
with which the poles click rapidly and the 
boats speed merrily along. Soloist and chorus 
follow each other much as in the song of Isa- 
beau. 

With many repetitions of the theme and to 




En rou-lant ma bou-le rou-lant, En rou-lant ma 



¥=^ 



9i|i^ 



^L^J:^ f^ f=^ r-f - ^^ 



ft 



^ 



Fine 



1 tM tr 



i 



^-4M 



iitat 



W 



m 



^=f 



^ 



^^ 



^1 ^ y 

bou - le. Der - rier chez-nous ya - t - un etang, 



=,-fv 



I h 1 ' ' 



194 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 



m 



^^ 



m 



En rou-lant ma bou - le. Trois beaux can-ards s'en 



i^n \ i iihtmi 



rf 



vont bai-gnant,rou - li, rou-lant, ma bou - le rou-lant, 



^ 



9t 



^9^9 



1 t7-t 

the almost incessant rolling of the ball, we are 
told of a pond where three beautiful ducks are 
bathing, when calamity overtakes one of their 
number. 

The king's son — who is out on a hunting 
expedition — arrives on the scene. He points 
his large silver gun at the black duck, but, by 
a species of reflex markmanship of which he 
does not seem to have the monopoly, he kills 
the white one. (Visa le noir, tua le blanc), 

''O king's son, thou art wicked," exclaims 
the duck's owner. "Wicked to have killed my 
white duckl 

195 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

"From under his wing, he loses his blood; 
from out of his eyes come diamonds, and from 
his beak, gold and silver. His feathers are 
flying in the wind. 

"But three ladies are picking up the feath- 
ers, and from them will be made a camp bed 
where all passers may rest." 

"C'est pour en faire un lit de camp, 
En roulant ma boule 
Pour y coucher tous les passants, 
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant. 
En roulant ma boule." 

This is another song, to attempt to trans- 
late which is iconoclastic, and which, separat- 
ed from its hearty accompaniment, has neither 
charm nor interest. 

As we pass among quiet pools, salmon after 
salmon is indicated to us, but no particular 
activity characterizes their movements on the 
occasion of this second excursion. 

"They are lazy and heavy now," remarks 
a guide. "They know that the law is on 
and that they are protected, so they dare to 
take their naps even in broad daylight." 

"But what if, through no seeking on the 
196 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

part of the fisherman, quite by accident, let 
us say, a salmon were to attach himself to a 
hook at this forbidden season, what would 
happen then?'' we query. 

"Ah, if the salmon were to break the 
law," replies the guide, "surely the fisher- 
man could not be held responsible for the 
offence, and on the salmon's own head 
would fall the consequences of his misdeed!" 

Suddenly, in a still, sheltered pool a little 
in advance of us, a widening circle is seen. It 
is followed by the appearance of a second 
and a third spreading ring. Then a shim- 
mering body leaps into the air. 

"The trout are rising," exclaim the sports- 
men; but we note that the statement — though 
made with zest — is not accompanied with 
the excitement and exultation which, on the 
earlier outing, announced our approach to 
salmon neighborhoods. 

Nevertheless, lines are soon whizzing 
through the air and reels are again rattling 
gleefully, and, now from the boats, again 
from the shore; now among the rapids, again 
in quiet waters, sometimes while treading the 
midstream path, the sport is carried on. 

But the cruel gaff does not appear in these 
197 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

operations, for a landing net comes to the 
sportsman's aid when the fish has been won 
and brought to its captor's neighborhood. 

This milder method of securing the prey 
meets with our approval, and even secures 
the patronage of some feminine members of 
the expedition. 

Mosquitoes and flies make their presence 
felt to-day, though not to any great extent, 
and the midday fires which our guides build 
as we halt by the riverside, serve a double 
purpose. Their smoke rids us of the winged 
pests, and their flames and embers cook our 
repast. 

What a charm there is about a meal pre- 
pared and partaken of under such delightful 
auspices. The beauty of our surroundings, 
the sense of freedom which their largeness 
and remoteness inspire, the absence of con- 
ventional trammels and superficialities — 
these and many other wholesome influences 
combine to make our impromptu meal the 
most successful of banquets. 

Here, as throughout the entire journey 
to-day, there is one lack however. The bird 
orchestra is silent, for the song season is 
over. 

198 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

It is with renewed interest and admiration 
that we watch the skillful guides as they un- 
pack the provisions and proceed with their 
practical preparations. 

The banner fisherman of the day gener- 
ously donates to the dinner the string of 
trout which forms the piece de resistance of 
the meal; and as the sweet, pink, smoking- 
hot morsels are laid before us — their jewel- 
studded casings all crisp and brown from 
contact with the sizzling frying pan — we no 
longer wonder at good old Isaac Walton's 
almost devout rhapsodies on the subject of 
certain newly caught and artistically cooked 
fish. 

When testing the flavor of the Grande 
Riviere trout, we exclaim, as did that Prince 
of anglers, anent a pike in its perfection of 
preparation: *'This dish of meat is too good 
for any but anglers and very honest men." 

Snatches of song and merry chat keep 
pace with the progress of the delectable 
meal, and when appetites have been satisfied, 
surplus provisions stowed away, and camp 
fires carefully extinguished, we again take to 
our skiffs and resume our up-the-river jour- 
ney, in course of which the morning's pleas- 
199 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ant happenings are repeated. There is fish- 
ing, singing, loitering, shore-investigating 
and forest reconnoitering, and at last we ar- 
rive at the camp which represents our shel- 
ter for the night. 

A little farther on, the stream in its wind- 
ings brings one suddenly to the sight of the 
comparatively near Shickshocks, though six 
or seven miles distant they still are. But the 
vision of the unveiling of the solemn, lonely 
mountains will not be ours till the journey is 
resumed and the cloud-crowned monarchs 
are bathed by the morning sun. 

Lonely enough the deserted camp appears 
as we view it from our skiffs. The sun has 
already disappeared behind the forest-clad 
hills, and the chill of a late August nightfall 
makes itself felt. The voices of the stream 
are minor-keyed now, and strange shadows 
brood over the mysterious country that 
stretches off toward those solitary regions 
where the Wild holds undisputed sway. 

But it is with the speed of magic that gloom 
is banished and a transformation scene effect- 
ed. The empty skiffs are drawn up on the 
beach while rugs, blankets and provisions are 
being transferred to the little lodge whose 
200 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

doors now stand invitingly open, and from 
whose every window gleam welcoming lights. 

Next the crackling of a lively fire is heard, 
and soon, from kitchen precincts, steal the 
most appetizing odors. Nor have we long to 
wait till we are summoned to that genial cen- 
tre — the dining-room table. A centre where 
glows the brightest of all the lights and where 
forest nosegays nod their fragrant welcomes. 

And the feast? 

It consists of smoking hot coffee, and smok- 
ing hot trout; of potatoes still singing the 
frying-pan scherzo; of hot buttered toast, of 
hot pancakes, of tasty galettes. Indeed it 
represents a genuine triumph on the part of 
our guides; and a more satisfied or more 
light-hearted company than ours It would be 
hard to find. 

But suddenly something happens. An oc- 
currence commonplace and frequent enough in 
the commonplace world where we have hith- 
erto lived, but of unusual significance In this 
place of remoteness and solitude; and espe- 
cially impressive in the hours of darkness. 

A guide from the outer staff knocks at the 
door and announces that some unknown per- 
sons are approaching. 

20I 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

"Somebody coming? What can it mean," 
we exclaim; and in less than a minute the din- 
ing room is deserted and the whole company 
is assembled at the riverside. 

Now all eyes are directed toward the dis- 
tant, down-stream point where dances a lan- 
tern's light. 

"Hola, Hola, vous autres. Quelle nou- 
velle apportez-vous?" 

But mocking echoes are the only answer. 

"Hola, Hola," cry the guides again and 
again, while nearer and nearer flutters the 
will o' the wisp light, and sounds of steady 
poling begin to be distinguishable. 

Answering shouts are now heard, and fin- 
ally there reach us with unmistakable dis- 
tinctness, the four simple words which re- 
veal the object of the expedition. 

"On apporte des telegrammes." 

With the announcement of the strange 
skiff's approach, vague fears had fastened 
themselves on the ever-anxious feminine 
mind. Fears which assumed the propor- 
tions of certainties, during the latter mo- 
ments of this apparently interminable wait- 
ing time. 

But it was with apprehensions regarding 
202 



( 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

business exigencies and interferences that the 
masculine brow grew gloomy. For as word 
had been left that none but urgent messages 
were to be sent after us, our sportsmen nat- 
urally interpreted the Intrusion as a menace 
to their well-earned, and — at best — all too 
limited respite from business thraldom. 

However, as is so often the case with 
threatened evil, our speculations were all 
astray and our fears proved groundless. It 
was through a misunderstanding that some 
harmless, unimportant messages were al- 
lowed to make their way to us. In the end, 
the misunderstanding even turned to our ad- 
vantage, for, through the error, our party 
of guides was reinforced by two sturdy vil- 
lagers with powerful lungs and good song 
repertories. Thus two lusty voices were 
added to the chorus with which the forests 
echoed as we gathered around the fire at the 
close of the banquet: the feast so alarmingly 
Interrupted but so happily resumed. 

And such a camp fire! 

Out on the stony beach at a point where 
the river repeats the glowing picture, is the 
site selected for the conflagration. 

A huge accumulation of logs, (more than 
203 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

a generous cord Is represented), flanked and 
surmounted by a heterogeneous mass of for- 
est refuse, glows and roars and sends forth 
myriads of sparks, and yields a fragrance In 
which the aroma of the green wood and the 
curling, sputtering birch bark, blends with 
the perfume of snapping resln-charged 
boughs — spruce, tamarack and balsam fir — 
and the sweet faint odor of moist earth and 
leaf-mould. 

In the light of this beautiful holocaust, the 
neighboring forests stand out Illumined and 
friendly. But sterner, darker, more mysteri- 
ous and more threatening than ever, become 
by contrast the remoter wilds. 

With faces turned toward the raging fire, 
and with wraps so disposed as to shield us 
from the chilly forests which He behind and 
on either side of us, we watch the varying 
phases of the Rembrandt picture. 

The guides flit In and out. In search of 
fuel for the hungry flames. But, In the midst 
of the activity, a fun-loving boatman halts 
and carefully examines the glowing pile's di- 
mensions. Next, with a daring that makes us 
shudder, and an agility that fills us with 
amazement, he steps on the end of an outjut- 
204 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ting log and vaults clean over the fire. 

Incited thereto, perhaps, by the horror 
and wonder of the feminine onlookers, a sec- 
ond agile guide repeats the feat. He in turn 
is followed by another daring companion; 
then another, and another, until the ring is 
complete and a circle of guides revolves 
through the flames. 

A game of leap frog follows; and, in its 
execution, the merry-makers frolic around the 
dangerous centre with the unconcern of danc- 
ers on the cool sward. 

But a request for a song induces a quieter 
mood, and the guides join the group seated 
round the fire. 

The first response is from a soloist, and the 
selection, one which has been sung and en- 
cored many a time during this happy holiday. 

In tones of melting tenderness and pathos 
and with gestures indicative of great senti- 
ment and emotion, the virtuoso proceeds. So 
plaintive, so touching is his rendering, that 
one almost loses sight of his very practical 
theme which is simply an iteration and reitera- 
tion of the statement that cabbage soup is 
made in the soup kettle. 

And now a story, a story, is the request 
205 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

from all sides, and in response, in simple but 
eloquent words, one of the guides, Joe, pre- 
sents to us the picture of another campfire; 
another flame-illumined circle of which he was 
a member. 

It is the spring season, and a band of north 
shore Indians, just returned from their long 
and terrible hunting expeditions in the inte- 
rior, have assembled to tell each other of the 
winter's experiences. 

Hardships have been the universal lot and 
one by one the savages rise and relate stories 
of hunger, and cold, and peril, and loss. 

The listeners sit cross-legged on the ground ; 
their eyes directed toward the fire ; their pipes 
wedged between their teeth; their lips open- 
ing only to emit clouds of smoke ; and during 
the greater part of the recital there is little to 
suggest that the narrative possesses the slight- 
est interest for them. 

But not a word falls unheeded, and now 
and then the stolid listeners are roused even 
to the pitch of expressing their sympathy. 
When fate has been particularly cruel, and 
loss and suffering have been almost unendur- 
able J or perhaps when some unusual deed of 
prowess has been performed, or some great 
206 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

victory scored, — then from the approving, or 
sympathetic circle will issue a series of mono- 
syllabic exclamations corresponding to "Yes, 
yes; yes, yes,'' while heads nod wisely and 
eyes seek the speaker's face. This is all that 
is required to convince the sufferer or the hero 
that his companions are in closest touch with 
him. 

But the exclamations which greet the story's 
close are the last comments which he will hear 
on the subject. A single recital of woes must 
suffice. Once related the incident is looked 
upon as closed, and the painful memories must 
not be revived. 

**Ah, had the ladies but been present with 
their cameras," exclaims Joe as he proceeds to 
relate another of his north shore experiences, 
"what wonderful pictures they might have se- 
cured!" 

But now it was no longer a question of 
shore dwellers, but of Indians who inhabited 
the remote forest country many miles back 
from the St. Lawrence. How the intelligence 
reached them it would be difficult to say, but 
by some chain of communication which had 
Its starting point at the coast, this distant set- 
tlement learned that on such and such a day, 
207 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

a strange boat would halt at the tributary's 
mouth near whose source they dwelt. A boat 
which travelled neither by the aid of poles nor 
oars, nor paddles, nor yet by means of sails; 
but by the force of water, heated till it burst 
into steam. And this marvellous thing they 
determined to see. 

"Ah but it was the strange sight that we 
beheld when they appeared! Every man, 
woman and child was dressed in the hide of 
a caribou. The animal's skin was put on as 
a garment (and the sole garment it was,) so 
that if an Indian chose to walk on all fours, 
he would have the appearance of a caribou. 
These garments once donned are not apt to 
be taken off until they are worn out, or out- 
grown — (though the smaller hides are used 
for children only) and a suit lasts years and 
years: perhaps even a lifetime. 

"To many of the hides the heads were 
still attached while some of the company 
even wore horns. In cases where the head 
was preserved, the wearers were not only 
furnished with an entire suit of clothes, but 
with a hood as well, one sees. 

"So down toward the river came these 
strangely attired people; these caribou walk- 
208 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

ing on their hind legs. With wonder, awe, 
curiosity and much suspicion they drew near- 
er and nearer to the steamboat which was 
now resting in a little harbor. They had 
come quite near indeed and were eagerly dis- 
cussing the strange object when, 'Let's give 
them a salute,' whispered one of the expedi- 
tion. 

"A loud shrill toot was next heard, but 
at the first shriek of the whistle the savages 
took to their heels ! Back to the wilds they 
flew — large caribou, medium-sized and 
small, all vanishing as if by the power of 
the evil one, and soon not a hide was to be 
seen. It is supposed that they never halted 
until they reached their settlement, nor do I 
know that they ever again ventured to the 
coast. 

"Ah could the ladies but have photo- 
graphed that flying company!" 

Now the fire burns low and the faces of 
our companions show but fitfully in the light 
of the dying flames. Silence has fallen on 
the company and the dark outer world is en- 
croaching on our circle. 

Suddenly the little Mexican dog starts, 
looks searchingly towards the deep recesses 
209 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

and utters a low, threatening growl. 

*'Ah la fine petite bete! She hears some- 
thing. Some prowling creature; a moose 
perhaps. Shall we call?'* 

Soon a beautiful sheet of white birch is 
twisted Into a gigantic horn and through it 
Is uttered a wild, roaring, bleating challenge 
— a challenge which always closes with a 
strange grunt or a series of grunts. 

Again and again the woods ring with the 
call of the guides, but only the echoes an- 
swer. The forest Itself is more silent, more 
solemn, more mysterious than ever. 

Once more silence falls on the company. 
A drowsy silence it Is, for the gayer mood 
has passed and the hour for rest has come. 

Then good nights are uttered, the com- 
pany breaks up and we betake ourselves to 
our shelter, there to sleep as do care-free, 
light-hearted little children. 

But one sound reaches us as we linger on 
the borders of the dream country. A voice 
floats over to us from the cabin where the 
men lodge. It Is the refrain of Isabeau. 
Sur le bord de I'eau 
Sur le bord vaisseau. 

Then silence, forgetfulness, sleep. 

2IO 



XII 
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

IT was perhaps midway between the time 
of our earlier fishing excursion and the 
expedition which brought us to Septem- 
ber's eve, that there came to us an awak- 
ening, disturbing message: one whose warn- 
ing would not be ignored, strive as we might 
to disregard it. 

The atmosphere was charged with it, the 
clouds showed it forth, and both sea and 
winds proclaimed it loudly. 

Secure in the warmth and the brightness 
and all the other genial influences of summer, 
we had gone heedlessly on our way, as if 
our happy holiday were to last forever. But 
on the day of the warning, there was a sharp 
sudden change, and even while August was 
but half spent, a frosty breath made itself 
felt. 

"It is cold to-day; cold, cold, cold," said 
an aged villager on the morning of the awak- 
ening day. ''Autumn will soon be here.'* 

"Let the ladies pay no heed to him," said 

211 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

a vigorous young matron through whose veins 
the warm life blood coursed rapidly. "It is 
the chill of life's autumn which le pauvre 
vieux feels. Let the ladies have no fear. Sum- 
mer will return. To-morrow will be warm 
again." 

And the morrow was warm, and summer 
returned for a time ; but our sense of security 
had vanished, and no reassurance either on 
the part of the season or of the villagers, 
could make us forget the untimely visitor with 
the frosty message. 

With early September comes the fulfillment 
of his subtle promise. 

Bright, clear, but almost crisp is the atmos- 
phere now. Brisk walks replace the seashore 
loiterings. Even in the sunshine or in the 
hut's shelter, we have no fancy for lingering. 

Night encroaches more and more on the 
province of day, and six o'clock, or earlier, 
sees the villagers comfortably housed. Gath- 
ered around their cheery fires instead of as- 
sembled on their galleries or in sociable little 
roadside clusters. 

Immortelles are now but snowy promises; 
bunchberries snuggle down among browning 
ferns, and the hills, so recently greening, are 
212 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

taking on autumn's richest, deepest tints. 

Potatoes are being harvested; a few, lit- 
tle hands are already mittened, and shoes 
and stockings are de rigueur. 

In their fireside talks people canvass the 
probable time of the last steamer's latest 
passing, or the earhest dates on which the 
Shickshocks have been known to don their 
white caps. 

There is mention of banking the houses; 
of bringing out warm clothing, and of look- 
ing after wood supplies. 

Bears have come down from the forest 
and have invaded our farmer's sheep fold — 
their store of summer provisions is at an 
end. 

There are unspeakable glories in the day- 
lit sky; but wild, awe-inspiring glories they 
are. Dark cloud-fringes dip into the sea 
and the sun goes down with a Dies Irae ef- 
fect. Sometimes — by a strange contrast — a 
golden belt will encircle the horizon and mel- 
low gleams will rest on village and lowland; 
while angry clouds will roll up from behind 
the hills, and lurid lights will play around 
their tops and the great dome seems about 
to accomplish the destruction of the universe. 
213 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

The surf pounds madly against the rocky 
shore. All the sea voices are sullen and 
deep toned, and the curl of the crested waves 
is cold and merciless. 

But the night skies I 

In the beautiful dark depths the stars 
glow with such a radiance as none but frosty 
seasons know, and the Northern lights are 
tinged with flame and red and gold. 

They dance, and shimmer, and wave, and 
play, and come and go; and now we know 
why the French have bestowed upon them 
the name of Les Marionettes. 

*'Ah could the ladies but behold them in 
Winter. Then they sway so rapidly and 
merrily that their swish and crackle can 
sometimes be heard.'* 

Winter? 

With the very mention of that terrible 
season our thoughts turn longingly to our 
own dear land. A land whose September is 
a beautiful modified summer, whose October 
is golden-glowed, whose November is not un- 
friendly, and whose worst winter is genial 
when compared with the Arctic season which 
this region promises. 

And we realize that at last we have come 
214 



< 



ST. ANNE OF THE MOUNTAINS 

to the parting of the ways. 

When September has lived out half its 
days and the Shickshocks are white-crowned 
and the little pools ice coated, we bid fare- 
well to the village and the hardy, kindly 
peninsular folk and turn our faces home- 
ward. 

"See!" we exclaim, when the ninety mile 
drive has been accomplished and we are 
again nearing the village of Little Metis. 

''See! There is a welcome sight." 

And the sight indicated is the brace of 
glistening steel rails which mark the path of 
the iron horse. 

Nevertheless, it is with sincere gratitude 
and hearty good will that we echo the fare- 
well of our village escorts. 

A Vete prochain. 



215 



NOV n W2 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





017 397 021 3 



